


Flexibility

by freakylemurcat



Series: Two Good Mechs [8]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Aphrodisiacs, BDSM Scene, Bathing/Washing, Blankets, Blow Jobs, Body Paint, Body Worship, Breathplay, Caning, Celibacy, Class Fantasies, Contortionism, Cunnilingus, Desperation, Dirty Talk, Drinking, Face-Sitting, Ficlet Collection, Flexibility, Flirting, Fluff without Plot, Fucking Machines, Gangbang, Hand Feeding, Hand Jobs, Healing, Implied Previous Prostitution, Jealousy, Kissing, Knives, Large Cock, M/M, Major Character Injury, Master/Pet, Mirrors, Missionary Position, Obedience, Piercings, Playing Hard to Get, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Coital Cuddling, Quiet Sex, Riding Crops, Rope Bondage, Semi-Public Sex, Sex Toys, Sharing a Bed, Shaving, Showers, Silk - Freeform, Subdrop, Temper Tantrums, Threesome, Tongue Piercings, Touching, Transformers Spark Bonds, Tyres - Freeform, Valve Play (Transformers), Vibrators, Wool
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2020-11-09 08:08:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 28,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20850224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freakylemurcat/pseuds/freakylemurcat
Summary: A collection of Jazz/Prowl ficlets and fun.Redhanded - Despite being tactical geniuses, Prowl and Jazz aren't as subtle as they could be about some things.





	1. Flexibility

**Author's Note:**

> I have no self control and a small word document filled with fic ideas that just aren't big enough to post on their own. SO HERE WE ARE.

Prowl had been lucky - his position as tactician and his sniping skills meant he had sustained fewer injuries and he had sustained was rarely severe. To be called in for repairs of the lingering damage was therefore a sign that Ratchet had scored a significant windfall. 

Prowl, as was recommended in his own communiques, did not ask where the parts came from, but thanked Ratchet and his medical team and left medbay feeling jauntier than he had for some time. No longer did his right doorwing ache at the hinge, and the shoulder beside it moved smoothly. His left servo flexed and gripped as well as it had ever done; slow, additive damage from the recoil of his acid rifle repaired as were a few hundred other small chronic wounds.

He had not realised how the tension across his spinal struts and linkages had weighed on him until it was relieved, and now he could pull his shoulders back and spread his doorwings wide as they should be. He spotted himself in the murky reflection of a door and approved of the changes - this was what a Praxian should look like, not hunched and miserable. 

His mood was so improved he even dared to venture to the rec room without any one pestering him for joors beforehand. His appearance caused the sound level to dim slightly until Sideswipe stage-whispered to Bumblebee, "Jazz is going to be fragged off he's missing those doorwings!" 

The resulting consensus was that Jazz would be very fragged off, but also that no mech should inform him of the delights he was missing because then no one else would get to enjoy it themselves. Anyway Jazz was still sprawled on a medbay berth, most of his major joints replaced and still groggy from stasis. The rumor was Ratchet had had him out most of the cycle to allow time for all the repairs. 

Prowl stayed for a while, flaunting his doorwings and the shiny new polish that First Aid had daubed on him in his medical stasis, until the attention started to seem stale. He missed Jazz' presence at the party; missed his bad pick up lines and overly touchy approach to flirting. He even missed being able to subtly wrap his arm around Jazz' shoulder and squeeze his tyre kibble or brush his servo over that fine aft. He made his excuses and left, only shaking his helm fondly at the chorus of catcalls at the sight of his retreating wings. 

Prowl was lounging comfortably in their quarters when Jazz was finally released from Ratchet's tender loving care and came bounding home. After a prolonged med bay stay the mech was squirrelly and excitable and his approach was audible from a corridor away. 

"Prowler!" Jazz rounded the door with the aborted sound of his speakers clicking off. "Oh, ya got all polished up?" 

"I believe First Aid did while they were completing my repairs," he said. Jazz looked similarly shiny, whites bright and pearlescent and blacks deep and dark. "Did Ratchet give you the all clear?" 

"Yeah! Check this out!" Jazz pivoted forward to place his servos on the ground and then delicately lifted one pede up 180 degrees from the other. Initially he moved like he was waiting for the stretch to be curtailed somewhere, but the range of movement was free and smooth. "I can stretch like I used to!"

He demonstrated further, bringing his torso up and reaching up to grab his pede to tow it down further over his back to add nearly another 90 degrees to the stretch. Prowl nodded his approval, watching the neat transformations at hip and knee that allowed the stretch to continue, and admiring the long curl of Jazz' limbs. 

"You're pleased," he noted. 

"Aw yeah mech! You know I used to do this all the time. Don't ya remember my dances?" He pivoted again, to stand straight but hold his suspended leg up along his flank, entirely balanced still on one pede. "Check this out!" 

"I remember you used to be able to put your pedes behind your helm," said Prowl, slightly husky with the memory. 

Jazz dropped his pede back down and pretended to pout. "You have a one track processor, Prowler."

"Normally you like the way I think," Prowl said, finally standing from the couch. His doorwings automatically swung high and wide, a view most mechs would see as imposing. 

Not Jazz though. Jazz stared; lips dropping slightly open and EM field tingling with abrupt lust, optic band running through a range of polarisations to fully appreciate his view. Prowl rolled his shoulders, stretching as if he weren't aware his repaired wings were having such an effect, but inwardly delighting at having his suave companion so stunned. 

"Hey, hey mech," started Jazz, suddenly hopping into his personal space, visor overly bright. "Hey, I can put my pedes behind my helm, ya know. Wanna see?" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My mental title for this was 'Weird Flex, but OK', but being able to put your feet behind your head is totally valid, especially when you might get some because of it.


	2. Bauble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz would chop a limb off if his cover demanded it; Prowl has to be grateful that this round of bodily modification is a little less severe.

For once it only took a cycle to chase Jazz down for debrief and reporting. Prowl was instantly suspicious -the average was typically at least an orn.

Jazz slouched in the chair across from Prowl's desk, all calculated sprawl that Prowl knew full well had been carefully curated for maximum personality. He grinned, a natural lazy smile that did nothing to take away from Prowl's suspicion. His voice sounded different, more of a metallic buzz to the normal low rumble from his vocaliser.

"Have you damaged something?" said Prowl eventually. "You are even noisier than normal when you talk."

Jazz laughed and then stuck his glossa out.

Prowl jolted, shocked, and lunged; Jazz did not even attempt to dodge and got his jaw squeezed in a tight grip.

"What did you do?" Prowl hissed. "Let me see!"

Like the petulant little gremlin he was, Jazz clenched his jaw. There was a wicked spark in his visor that always makes Prowl's engines run hotter. Well, if that was the way the menace wanted to play it...

"Open your mouth." He squeezed harder, so he could feel the hinges in Jazz' jaw start to creak and the wicked creature chuckled in a deep mischievous way. 

The bauble was smack bang in the centre of the thick metal-mesh of Jazz' glossa, a single gleaming knot above and below. It clacked merrily off the enamelled surface of his teeth and the wiry floor of his mouth and glimmered prettily with the reflected light of Prowl's inspecting optics.

"All the mechs in Kaon had 'em," said Jazz, clicking the piercing off the roof of his mouth in a wholly unnecessary way. "Had to fit in."

"If the mechs in Kaon all jumped off a bridge...." said Prowl and then stopped himself, because yes, Jazz would throw himself off a bridge to avoid breaking cover. Jazz would do anything up to and including quite severe injury to avoid breaking cover, the ultimate spec ops professional. "Perhaps don't answer that."

"I happen to think it looks quite good," Jazz said. And then he smiled. "Bet it feels good too."

Prowl stared at him for a long moment and then triggered the lock to the doors. Jazz laughed, low and delighted, and lunged over the desk. Prowl ended up with a lapful of amorous sportscar, his desk half wreckage and the chair creaking.

Jazz kissed him, enthusiasm rather than suaveness colouring it. He was all tongue, pushing more into Prowl's mouth that ever before so he had no option but to feel the flex inside his mouth. The barbel was entirely novel but also quite pleasant, something to wrap his own glossa around, wicking the heat from his own meshes to Jazz. 

"I think you like it," teased Jazz when the kiss broke. He stuck his glossa out and wiggled it, in an all too provocative fashion. "Incidentally, wanna find out what else Kaonites like to pierce?"

They don't manage to break his desk this time, but it's close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let your imagination run wild to all the Kaonite mechs that have tongue piercings as well.


	3. Support Structure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl can always depend on Jazz to talk him down and buoy him up.

The wreckage of his desk was the first thing Prowl saw when the red film lifted from his processor. The brief release from the destruction left behind some horrible chasm, ready to be filled with the next emotion, and he waited to see what direction he would be taken in. 

Someone revved their engine softly, and Prowl's attention whipped up. He could barely control the snarl of his engine, irritation threatening to spill up and over. 

Jazz was leaning against the closed door, no indication of when he had gotten there and even less of where the Twins had disappeared to. He said nothing, just leant there, silent and optic band focussed on the debris on the floor. Prowl supposed he should be grateful for the lack of overbearing attention but today even this seemed like insult on injury. 

Frustration overwhelming, he spat a curse and kicked the nearest data pad. It shattered pleasantly. 

"Prowl!" Jazz sounded tired above all else. "Mech, why the mess?" 

He spat a few frustrated sentences about his day; the minor annoyances which had added up until he had almost crashed with sheer numbing aggravation. The last straw had been the Twins’ unrepentant arrogance over their latest stupid escapade.

"Prowl," repeated Jazz, starting to sound chiding. "Ya can't destroy the furniture after a bad day. There ain't enough desks on the Ark."

"You don’t get to tell me how to behave!" He hissed, flaring his doorwings and, with no small amount of humiliation, stamping a pede. 

Jazz just _ looked _ at him, silent and unimpressed, until Prowl's doorwings started to sag and his righteous anger lost some of its fire. The chasm was still there, hungry and waiting and the left over temper just couldn’t fill it any longer.

"All right, fine," said Jazz finally, crossing his arms and pushing off the door with his shoulder. "But I'm here now, so let's settle down and maybe tidy up a bit, huh?" 

"Don't treat me like a sparkling throwing a tantrum!" 

Jazz tilted his helm slightly. "Maybe if you didn't act like one, I wouldn't have to. But if this is what ya want Prowl, this is what i'll give ya."

Prowl pursed his mouth and looked at the floor, sagging a little more at the evidence of his anger and why Jazz was upset with him. He hadn't said it, but Prowl could tell. More and more of his temper fled him, and more and more he felt hollow and numb instead. 

"Prowler, I asked you to do something," said Jazz, nodding to the floor. “Do ya need me to help?” 

"Yes, Jazz," he said, "Sorry, Jazz." 

"Good mech." Jazz crouched to pick up a datapad. Prowl scrambled to help, piling pads up with no care for his previous filing system. When his servos were full, Jazz collected them from him and stacked them in the corner. The desk required more repair for it to be salvageable.

"You can finish tidying later," said Jazz, righting the table anyway and huffing when it tipped over on a wobbly leg. 

"Could have told you it would do that," muttered Prowl, the last frustration expressed as sulkiness.

"Now, none of that," said Jazz, apparently not noticing his sullen tone. "You'll fix it tomorrow. Come on." 

When Prowl didn't move as commanded, Jazz chuffed his engine with irritation but then cut it off abruptly. 

"You'll come with me, Prowl," he said in a tone than brooked no disagreement, the sort of tone that made mechs like Ironhide and Sunstreaker back away, that once had the Prime himself hurriedly apologising. When he took Prowl's servo in a tight grasp, fingers tingling with the thrum of magnetics, Prowl didn't try to pull away. 

Being led through the corridors servo in servo should be humiliating, but the base was apparently deserted. Prowl stumbled along behind Jazz in silence; the roar of anger and frustration in his helm reduced further and further to that bleak emptiness again with every step.

"Ya fuelled today?" asked Jazz as they neared their quarters. 

Prowl shook his helm. It felt like the chasm was yawning wider, waiting for him to misstep and tip in and struggle to escape the hollow shock. 

Jazz sighed. "Prowler, ya know better than that by now.." 

"I am sorry." Already, he almost meant it, lulled it into by his lover's attention. He liked when Jazz treated him like this; when his frustration boiled over into something so ungraceful, he could count on Jazz to take him in servo without even asking. When the emotion burnt him out to this numb state, he knew Jazz would be waiting and ready to soothe his wounds. 

Jazz tutted but pulled him into their quarters and disengaged his magnets. "Go sit down. I'll get ya a cube." 

Prowl sat on their sofa and let his helm drop into his servos. His processors felt fluffy, even the tactical unit could not make much headway in the murk occupying his circuits.. He was exhausted and dependant and wholly trusting. 

The cube Jazz brought over was brimming full and decorated with selenium sprinkles - Prowl's favourite. He sat beside Prowl and pushed down the servo that came up to try to take the cube. 

"I dunno if I should trust you with this," he said. "Given the tantrums ya been throwing today." 

Prowl's systems hiccupped with shame. 

"Ah, no, Prowler," cooed Jazz, reaching around him to lure him in, halfway to lying on Jazz' lap. "Don't be sad. Come sit close to me and I'll take care you of you, sweet spark." 

Somehow, Jazz let him sip down the cube in slow gentle mouthfuls, contentment rising as his tanks filled. A servo petted across his chest plates in spiralling circles, and Jazz's field was warm and open and comforting like a blanket. The energon tasted as good as their processed version could, and gradually the quiet in Prowl's processors became soft and calming. The chasm was still there but slowly, drip by drip it started to fill with the effects of affection. 

"There's my good mech," crooned Jazz, as the cube drained to empty. "My lovely Prowler. You just stay here with me, and I'll look after you, won't I?" He started a lullaby, a low hum; Prowl tucked in closer, his helm over the metronome pulse of Jazz' spark chamber, confident that Jazz would indeed look after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prowl needs therapy. 
> 
> The name of my platform will be 'Get Prowl Some CBT 2019'


	4. Temptations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz is stupidly in love, utterly doomed and delighted to be both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of Chapter 1

Jazz was in love. Wholly, fully, stupidly in love. 

Whoever had suggested that Prowl update his paint and polish was a mech that Jazz wanted to meet. 

Prowl's paint was bright and impeccable. The white shone like a beacon, pure and spotless, and the black was deep and tinted with another shade for further dimension. The crimson of his chevron  _ glowed _ .

Prowl had never been scruffy - he had too much pride for that - but the stress and exhaustion of his role had faded his dark tones and blurred the edges of his decals. Painted up like this Jazz wanted to get to his knees and lick his elegantly painted pedes.

And then he stood up and oh! Those doorwings!

He had held his doorwings tensely across his back, nearly flat angled across the top. Vorns ago, before the pressure had mounted so heavily, he had held himself much differently. That had been the mech Jazz had leapt to get to know, although he had found much more than a shiny set of wings. 

Previously he had vociferously denied the extent of his attraction - it was embarassing to lose his chill like this, and it wasn't cool to reduce Prowler down to a set of fancy kibble - but right now Jazz was struck dumb by his own lust. 

Some of his favourite memories of their first few clinches were Prowler's wings swaying and bobbing in time to his movements, a huge widespread reminder of the mech's size and strength and his power to reduce Jazz to a pile of babbling wreckage. 

No one could ever say that Jazz wasn't quick on the draw of an opportunity arose. "Hey, I can put my pedes behind my helm, ya know. Wanna see?"

Well, Prowl did - of course - and that was how Jazz found himself on his back, pedes indeed tucked up and entirely out of his sight. It had been awhile since his regularly abused joints had managed this, and while his components were fresh and his gears well oiled it felt tighter than normal. Prowl didn't seem to mind, but then again he was the one getting his spike wet, rutting against the messy exposed mesh of Jazz' valve, gaze focused on the bizarre twist of his hip joints. 

But Jazz could watch those glorious beautiful wings, even higher and broader than before as Prowl finally took the plunge and slipped the blunt head of his spike in before rocking back. The sight above him was almost as good as the roll of pressure over his internal nodes, especially when Prowl bit his lip in pleasure and his wings essayed a slow wave forward and back in time with his next thrust. 

He had to dig his digits in a little harder, holding his hip joints stretched back as his cables tensed and pinged with how good he felt. Watching Prowl's wings flutter was almost hypnotising; it was all too easy to be lured in by the sensual movements, and it somehow ramped up his enjoyment. Before long Jazz's sensors were wracked with the steady throb of impending overload, and hsi valve clenched hungrily with every thrust. The inward press of his hip joints made Prowl's spike feel bigger and thicker, less space to occupy, and the spread of his frame above made Jazz feel smaller, coddled and protected.

He aimed to stutter out a warning, but the dam broke just a nanoklik before he was expecting, and he was swamped, vocaliser bleating static as he overloaded with a strut deep shudder. Lubricant spilled from his clenching valve, dripping down over his aft and along Prowl's still pumping spike, with obscene sounds, which grew louder as Prowl grunted and overloaded himself. 

They must have made an interesting tableau, Jazz thought foggily, as they stilled to cool and calm: him twisted into this bizarre shape and Prowl so imposing and demonstrative

"Do you need help?" suggested Prowl mildly, pulling back enough that his half hard spike slipped free to rest against the mess they had successfully made of Jazz' valve. 

"If you're gonna blow my processors, ya need to give me a breem or two after," said Jazz but he unraveled himself, surprised at how easy his hips shifted back into position. He found himself with his thighs splayed around Prowl's trim waist instead. It was not a bad place to be. The view in particular was excellent. 

Prowl smiled at him, and glanced over his own shoulder to follow Jazz' gaze. He made a contemplative noise of realisation and then smirked.

Jazz was in love and utterly  _ doomed _ . 

"Hey Jazz," Prowl purred, and rolled his wings forward again. "Have you seen what Ratchet did to my doorwings?" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to my comfort zone - explicit pornography.


	5. Whitewalls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz gets some new treads and takes a moment for some self-appreciation

In Jazz' opinion there were plenty cool things to love about Earth, but one of his favourites was the  _ style _ .

His earth alt-mode was a sexy little racer, with more curves than you could shake a wrench at, and whenever he laid down the accelerator he always got a pleasant little rear-axle wriggle that had once distracted Prowl so badly he had driven into a highway barrier. While some days he rather missed his Cybertronian alt-mode, the hoverwheels and maglocks were impractical for a planet not constructed of metal and his neat Porsche more than made up for it.

Especially when you could customise so much...

For example, today he was returning from a very successful trip with some brand new treads - one of the negatives about Earth technology was the regular need to replace bits of it - and he was very proud of them indeed. He'd first seen the like on a big American classic model, an absolute behemoth of a car, and he had been inconsolably jealous since.

He revved his engine a little and drew parallel with Sunstreaker's glossy flank to admire his own reflection. Tinged sunshine-golden with Sunny's impeccable paintwork, the image was slightly off but Jazz was still delighted - whitewall tyres!

Sunstreaker made a disgruntled noise at being flanked and jumped ahead with a snort of exhausts. "You look ridiculous," he announced gravely, which Jazz thought was rich coming from a bright yellow Lamborghini.

"It's classic."

"Not on you. Should've stuck with a normal wall, got a bigger alloy or something." Sunstreaker huffed as they turned from the highway to the semi-dirt track that led towards the Ark. He disapproved of dirt for many reasons, which Jazz would be lucky to escape without a lecture on. "See! Now you're in for it with this muck..."

Jazz sighed and muted the comm.

Even though Sunny had a point about the effect of the dirt road on his shiny white walls, he had appeared to forget that wash racks were a thing. Jazz had checked in from his excursion, dropped a flirty message to Prowl to come see him whenever he was off-shift and hit the racks.

They used water mostly these days, but Wheeljack had managed to get their solvent processors running again for any mech that was picky about their finish. Jazz liked Earth a whole lot but he had been on leave for nearly a week now and there was only so much organic debris a mech could let build up, so he chose a solvent tap and doused himself fully. He scrubbed every seam and joint thoroughly, until the solvent ran clear and every piece of metal and chrome gleamed under the droplets. Jazz paused under the drier - appropriated from a half-demolished automated carwash - under his gears and cables were warm and the solvent had steamed off.

Sunstreaker had insisted on the mirror. It was half the length of the wall and even Skyfire could almost see all of himself in it. Jazz had laughed and playfully teased Sunny about his vanity at the time, but even he wasn't entirely against a little self-admiration if the time was right.

Because, damn, there was a fine looking mech looking back at him from the mirror. Steam still wisping off his shoulders, visor bright and paint glossy. And then those nice new tyres...

The tyres were lovely, big and firm, the black rubber of the circumference gleaming with the run of solvent and every tread delicately perfect. Jazz squeezed the one on his right shoulder speculatively - the tyre itself was numb, but the sensitive hub underneath picked up the minutest of pressures and the rubber had exactly the right amount of give.

He ran a digit around the line of the white rubber on his shoulder, shivering at the treble squeak he elicited. Something in the vibration tickled the sensors beneath, sending pleasant bolts into his arm joints. Whenever he bounced on his heels, the new treads on his pedes had exactly the right amount of jiggle.

What a pity the wash racks were public, because was Jazz really wanted to do right now was settle right down where he stood, prop his legs up on the mirror and spin his tyres a bit for his own amusement. The racks had warmed him up so nicely, and his engine still rumbled with the vibrations of his trip, and these damn whitewalls..! Jazz' servo brushed momentarily against his pelvic panel, caught up in a fantasy. He could press his spike against the broad rubber, until the white sides were dripping with his transfluids, or use the treads to roll against his anterior node instead.

It was risky to entertain fantasies like that in public. Jazz only just managed to straighten from a panting hunch he hadn't realise he'd dropped into, digits entwined in the alloy of his right heel's tyre, as the door hissed open to admit another 'bot. The cool air rushing in along with Mirage's more stately approach dimmed the simmering lust in Jazz' frame to a background hum and he managed a few moments of small talk before escaping.

HIs message still sat unread in Prowl's inbox - the mech himself was a stickler for not even looking at Jazz' private comms when on shift - so Jazz himself was alone and looked to remain that way. It was a shame, he thought, glancing down the length of his legs to his heels as he paced - where his tyres gleamed invitingly - because he was absolutely going back to their quarters and fragging himself silly.

And if Prowl did eventually join him, well, then Jazz had some great ideas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When Prowl checks his emails, his inbox is just choked with picture messages and NONE OF THEM are safe for work.


	6. Altered States

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl has his evening planned out nicely; Jazz is the spanner in the works, although for once it's only partially his fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for alcohol and chemical influences, but its safe to assume they would wanna bang anyway.

The Twins dropped Jazz back at his and Prowl's door with a ring of the bell and hurried apologies through comm message. Prowl found out why moments later when the door slid open in response to Jazz' RFID and the mech stumbled through. Sideswipe and Sunstreaker had already bolted. 

Initially Prowl though the mech was just overcharged; stumbling and swaying as he was, engine sawing back and forth through its revs unevenly. But his fans were humming full bore and his vents had swung so wide open Prowl could almost see into his torso. 

Then Jazz half swung himself, half collapsed over Prowl's lap and captured him into a sloppy kiss. He was all glossa and heat, vocaliser moaning even with his mouth occupied. Prowl jolted in surprise - he had been sitting here, minding his own business and enjoying the book that had since been knocked to the floor. And while he liked having Jazz keen for him, this seemed a bit much all of a sudden. Especially when, if Prowl wasn't mistaken, he had already opened his pelvic plates and was grinding his valve down onto Prowl's thigh. 

He grabbed Jazz's helm and broke the kiss -to a bleat of upset from his lover -and glanced down. Yes, that was a slick wet valve grinding hot on his leg, and a fully pressurised spike as well rubbing up against his belly. 

"Oh, _oh_," groaned Jazz, hitching himself in closer and shuddering all over. "Oh mech, I am running hot for you." His servos were getting all sorts of up close and personal with Prowl's bumper, finding all those sensitive points that made Prowl's own temperature gauge click up a degree or three. 

Prowl abandoned his grip on Jazz' chin to gather up his wrists and yanked them behind his back, into a neat Enforcer's hold that was nearly unbreakable. 

"I can see that," he said drily. Jazz only whined and wriggled harder. 

"Primus, Prowler," he moaned, "Please, I want you!" 

The writhing seemed almost pained, desperate, and Prowl didn't like to see Jazz like this unless it was his fault. He hitched his knee up to give a little extra counterpressure for Jazz's desperate movements. 

"So what have you been doing?" he growled, leaning in. Delicate chemoreceptors across the mesh in his face plates picked up the sting of high grade, poorly refined like the stuff he knew the Twins brewed in their still, and a little extra something he didn't recognise. 

He quickly messaged an alert to Ratchet anyway, but it didn't take his tac unit to work out what had happened. 

"We just had some drinks," gasped Jazz, whining in distress that he couldn't move more. "They had a new brew. I think it might've been a bit strong." 

"I'll say," muttered Prowl. Ratchet had messaged back -yes, he knew the Twins had been up to no good again with their still;  yes, he knew that their new concoction had some unexpected side effects; no, it wasn't dangerous as long as the excess charge was released _promptly_. Good luck; have fun. 

Well there went Prowl's quiet evening, but with Jazz whimpering for him on his lap, Prowl couldn't find it in himself to be regretful. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Twins are in bucketloads of trouble. Eventually.


	7. Requests

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz knows what he wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuation to 'Altered States'

Jazz's engine revved with each of Prowl's words. He was lit up with charge, hot and shivering and eager. 

"Should I leave you to wear it off?" Prowl suggested, squeezing his grip on Jazz' wrists. 

The next whimper was spark-broken. Prowl almost felt bad. 

"I think I might die if you do," whined Jazz. 

"Well, that won't do," said Prowl, leaning in to nip at a throbbing cable on the mech's throat. "Do you want me to help you?" 

"Oh please," moaned Jazz. The slickness against Prowl's thigh, where Jazz' valve was leaking, grew profusely; his spike dripped droplets of transfluid across their abdominal plates. "Of please, Prowler. I'm so hot." 

"Yes, I can see that," murmured Prowl. "But for me, or just in general?" 

"For you, _for you_," yowled Jazz, "Always for you! Oh Prowler, touch me please!" 

"But you look so lovely suffering like this" 

So lost in his lust filled misery as he was, Jazz didn't notice Prowl moving them both, expertly changing his grip to drag Jazz' hands up above his helm and shifting them so he could lie between Jazz' thighs on the sofa. 

"Please, Prowler," Jazz moaned, "Please. Frag me, Prowler, just touch me. Frag my valve, my port, my intake, take my spike, whatever you want, just _touch_ _me_!" 

Prowl shushed him affectionately, nuzzling into another kiss. There was no grace left in Jazz now, only starving overheated desperation. His thighs squeezed around Prowl's hips until their plating creaked, and Prowl let his spike pressurise, rutting into the hot mess of his lover's soaked valve. Jazz wailed and juddered into an overload from the first run over his anterior node, quaking down into his core, but still his temperature ran high and his vocaliser ran with desperation. 

"More, please Prowler, gimme that spike, let me feel it,  _ please _ ."

Asked so nicely, Prowl couldn't deny him. His spike slipped in to the root in a smooth stroke, the mesh around him so soaking wet it was almost frictionless. Like this he could last for  _ joors _ , which might go someway to help with Jazz' overfull charge. 

"Keep begging," he growled, "And I'll give you whatever you want."


	8. Fulfilment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you can't escape your fate, but you can make it work for you if you're clever.

Jazz had been built with a purpose in mind. Staniz had been a shipbuilding town, and all a shipbuilding town needed were builders and things to keep the builders happy. Nimble and deceptively strong for his frametype, Jazz was still not heavy construction material; he had been entertainment.

BIg, coarse-mannered shipyard mechs were easy enough to amuse. Sing a little ditty, pose a little, maybe flash a little panel if you were feeling risque, and they were happy.

It was boring.

A few mechs had claimed it Unicron-borne, but through whatever process it didn't matter - Jazz' spark needed a challenge. He needed a difficult tune to master, or a complicated set of dance moves. He needed banter, a little back and forth, to make the to-and-fro of a frag worthwhile

Prowl had been sparked and framed an Enforcer, and therefore probably didn't have the rights to be able to act as snobby and arrogant as he often managed. After all he had been built for hard graft and a certain amount of physical labour, certainly his processor had been constructed for heavy thinking. He wasn't one of the pampered few, who had been painstakingly enframed for luxury and beauty, with little in the way of practicality, but he could certainly display the attitude of one who was when the time was right.

They had started fragging not long after they had first met, and it had been long enough now that they knew each others predilections to the core.

So when Jazz sent Prowl dirty messages and winked - as best one cough with an optical display -, Prowl shot nasty looks at him over the meeting tables in return. Jazz hung off Prowl's shoulders and laughed when he got an elbow to the ribs as a warning. He crooned love songs in Prowl's direction and mimed spark break when Prowl scoffed and tossed his head. It all looked dismissive, but Prowl knew how to play the games that Jazz wanted to play.

He wanted to tempt and aggravate, until Prowl was brimming with lust, to crack that stand-offish attitude. There was nothing that got his engine revving quite like having someone out of his league lust after him.

* * *

To frustrate Prowler to the extent he kissed Jazz so hard he split a lip and then bent him over the back of their sofa was the ideal. It was hot, so fragging hot, to get this stuck up mech growling for him. Jazz groaned and arched up into the demanding hands running down his back, his flanks, gripping his hips and pulling him back against an overheated panel. 

"You tease," snarled Prowl, rutting up against Jazz' aft. His big pursuit engine rumbled: a hungry angry noise that shook Jazz down to his struts.

"Come on," he said, "Frag me!"

"Filthy mouth," chided Prowl, taking a firm grip on one of Jazz' sensitive audials and pulling him up flush to his front. "Is this how you act in polite company?"

Jazz was definitely not in polite company, not when his panel catches were flipped open by clever fingers and then the thick nose of a spike was abruptly shoved in. It was good being pulled around in such a demanding way, neck twisted this way and that for Prowl's pleasure as he kissed and licked along stretched cables. Jazz could either grip the back of the sofa, which he did until the material threatened to rip, or reach back and clutch at Prowl's narrow hips as he thrust in. 

It felt good to be wanted.


	9. Bright Ideas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You shouldn't pick up unidentifiable objects in Wheeljack's lab for a variety of reasons.

Jazz so rarely looked repentant, that when he mustered the expression Prowl had to pause and take a few photograbs for posterity’s sake. 

HIs frustrated rant about responsibility and common sense wete probably not having much of an effect anyway, and Ratchet had already given the same talk. At a higher volume. 

“Explain to me,” he said, with a certain amount of forbearance. “The thought process that lead to us being here.”

Jazz grimaced, and shuddered for a moment. 

“Well…” he said, when he managed to regain control of his vocaliser. “Wheeljack was down ‘cause he’d broken that limb strut and Ratch’ refused the transfer over to the Wrecker unit until it got fixed, but they needed someone to go out so Percy went instead, an’ that meant that Jackie was festerin’ all along in his lab with no mech to bounce his ideas off’a, so I thought I’d take a field trip and sit in…”

His vocaliser screeched, and every vent popped open to flush hot steam from his interior. Prowl tried to pretend to not be sympathetic, but he still reached out and touched a splayed knee to show he wasn’t entirely sparkless. 

“And you know I  _ try _ to listen, but Jackie’s got one of those one-track processors and there’s a lotta interesting gadgets in his lab and I mighta got a bit distracted and…”

He gestured down his body, to the source of the low frequency hum that had filled the room continuously. Prowl looked obediently, although he had spent many breems already looking, listening to Ratchet snarling and complaining and declaring that Jazz was an idiot. 

“I still do not understand why you thought picking anything up in Wheeljack’s lab and pressing the first button you saw was a good idea,” he said, eyeing the source as sparks crackled and Jazz curled over with a low moan again. 

“Most time’s its something interesting like a weapon or summat!” exclaimed Jazz. “Not some Primus-forsaken  _ fragging-machine _ !”

Prowl had to concede that point. WIth a certain caveat. “Ratchet is having a chat with ‘Jack about the purpose of some of his devices , but I would argue that pressing the buttons on a bomb is also a bad idea.”

Jazz shrugged and slumped back into the berth, thighs trembling and splaying further. Where his panel normally slid back to display pretty pale grey and blue striped mesh there was a dark steel panel obscuring the view, magnetised firmly to the protometal. The rhythmic hum continued unabated as Jazz panted and popped his vents again to disperse a fresh batch of steam. 

“Dare I ask how it even got inside of you?” asked Prowl, tapping the base and smiling at the flurry of curses it earned him. He had seen Wheeljack's blueprints - the machine was built off this plate, with the vague design of a spike but a lot more telescopic and vibratory functions than normal. 

“Guess Jackie thought interactivity was the main thing missing in most false-spikes,” said Jazz. “But it might need a warning attached; ain’t no one as surprised as me when the damn thing sprouted tentacles and pulled my panel clasps off.”

Prowl had seen the video footage, which Red Alert had already promised to consign to the depths of permanent deletion. Jazz had indeed been surprised, but Wheeljack’s inventions were very hard to prevent from doing what they were designed to do once started. 

“Jackie and Ratch’ come up with any smart ideas about how to stop this torture?” asked Jazz in a faintly shaking voice. He looked repentant again and Prowl offered a reassuring smile. He was still annoyed, of course, but he was also practical. 

“Wheeljack has suggested that enough transmitted charge will eventually destroy the battery and kill the magnets, allowing removal,” said Prowl, adding, “He has assured us, on pain of having his finials replaced with LEDs, that this should  _ not _ be explosive.”

Jazz’ expression settled slightly. “Has he suggested how much charge might be required?”

“The estimate was about ten decent overloads,” said Prowl. He had already locked the door to the private medberth when he had initially entered; Jazz had been too busy choking on his own charge to notice. “Luckily he also offered a bottle of industrial grade lubricant, which I think should be sufficient.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IDEK man but this is totes one of my favourites.


	10. Stripped Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cybertronian disguises need a bit of elbow-grease to remove. Luckily Jazz has a keen helper.

There were three pots waiting in the wash racks. Two Jazz recognised as Prowl's own paint colours, both some of Sunstreaker's fabled shades, and the third was something he didn't recognise until he popped the lid out of curiosity. 

"Paint thinner," he noted as his chemoreceptors balk at the stink. 

"Stripper actually," said Prowl, laying out a series of tools from his subspace, rags and cloths and a single metallic implement with a blunt blade like a wide chisel. "I had to borrow from Ratchet." 

Jazz laughed and picked up the paint scraper, twirling it between his digits like he might a knife. "I'm guessin' ya don't like my makeover then?" 

Prowl eyed his gaudy purple paint with a particularly skeptical eye and said, "While I think you always look lovely, I have to say violet if not your colour." 

"Dunno," says Jazz, out of mischief. "I'm starting to think I rather like it. What if I kept it?" 

The look on Prowl's face was akin to when someone upset his tactically perfect plans. Jazz trembled with the need to giggle, but held on just to enjoy the pout. 

"If you're afraid of my skill," Prowl said sulkily, "I assure you I have painted others before. All it takes is a steady hand and a keen eye." 

Jazz shimmied up into his personal space, still twirling the chisel and half wrapped himself up against Prowl's front. 

"Don't sulk Prowler," he teased, pressing kisses to his love's jaw. "It's not for me to deprive you of this chance." He pressed the scraper into Prowl's palm. "I can see you're looking forward to paint me up in your pretty colours." Prowl's vents caught, his frame leaked heat. His free servo stroked over Jazz' aft, slow and tender and considering, like a brush stroke from a master. "Gonna strip me down first?" 

Prowl did. He wrapped his hands in thick cloths and picked up the stripper. The first pour draped over Jazz' chest plates; once he switched off his chemoreceptors he could focus on the gentle sizzle as his paint warped and turned slick. When Prowl swiped the scraper over the distorted purple it came away and left a streak of bright silver behind.

It shouldn't be half as erotic as it was, with the burn and slither of solvent and loosening paint, nor the gentle pull and scratch of the scraper. Jazz looked down and watched as his lurid paint was stripped down to the silver of bare metal, becoming more and more enamoured of Prowl's servos on his limbs as he stroked and cleaned and brought him down to his base colour. Sometime, Prowl had discarded his protective rags, and now the paint of his servos and forearms was fast blistering.

Jazz was entirely naked of paint by the time he pointed this out, vents purring softly.

Prowl loomed up, pulling Jazz in with a hand clasped over his aft. "There is exactly enough paint for two mechs here. Shall we share?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this weird semi-sexual Transformers shaving erotica I see before me? 
> 
> I don't find it pays to think too heavily about this.


	11. Weft and Warp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of all of Jazz' silly Earth collections, Prowl minds the fabrics the least.

Cybertronian fabrics had always tended towards the plastics and malleable metal fibres. They had been much different from the warm nature of the Earth fabric that Jazz rather liked. He regularly acquired new samples - Cybertronian sized pieces meant that his sources had to be personally commissioned - and tucked them away in their quarters. 

It was better than the collection of hubcaps on the walls, which fell down at the slightest touch with an almighty clatter, or the collection of noisy Earth music that Jazz was so enamoured with, or the collection of human friends who were definitely weird even by organic standards. 

Prowl was neither here nor there, right up until he returned to the Ark mid snow-storm from a mercy mission to help the fools who thought they could outdrive a blizzard. He had been cold and miserable, and his doorwings had been so frozen they had sagged against his back. 

Jazz had taken one look at his grim expression and abysmal posture and produced the biggest woollen blanket Prowl had even seen. He had cast it over Prowl's shoulders like a fisherman netting his catch and bundled the thick knit all around him until he could barely move. And it had worked. His temperature had climbed, his doorwings had ached less and the wool had been warm and maybe Prowl had dozed into recharge on the sofa for once. 

After that he had found himself included in Jazz' fabric shenanigans and hadn't complained too much. 

The synthetic sponges that humans tended to use on their own vehicles normally came too small for Cybertronian servos, but with a certain amount of determination had come a bigger version that was just right for soaping up plating. Jazz hoarded his chamois like it was made of rare metals rather than the sheepskin it actually was, but would produce a handful of microfiber cloth to help buff Prowl's plating to a neat sheen if needed. 

Some of the synthetics felt closer to the old Cybertronian fabrics so it was like a little bit of home to come back to the berth draped in polyester or rayon, smooth and simple. Jazz had managed to purchase huge sheets of the stuff, admittedly in patterns that were only pleasant in different spectrums of light, and changed it out regularly so the berth was always clean and fresh for recharge. 

The more organic fabrics were more for special occasions. Jazz did seem to think that Prowl’s doorwings were built to have things draped over them. Prowl couldn’t say he minded - being warm and snug was pleasant, and the fabric quietened the constant buffeting of sensation in a soothing manner. The heavy woollen blanket was folded over the top of a small crate by the berth, ready for use if needs be. Inside were the spare sheets, and a number of lighter pure cotton sheets and spares if the temperature didn’t allow for the wool. The velour was as tacky as just about anything this side of Shockwave’s paint job - and in a similar shade of lavender - but it was a similar sensation to the smaller offcuts of velvet at the bottom of the crate. Whoever had sent Jazz the huge swatches of tweed and denim was someone Prowl wanted to have a word with about taste. 

Silk though. 

Silk was delicate and cool and so smooth it was overwhelming to his sensors as they strained to pick up the imperfections in the sheet. The piece Jazz had must have cost him enormous amounts, should really be placed somewhere secure for safe keeping, but Jazz shook his helm in the negative when Prowl had suggested it.

He had bought it to use it, he said and had lain back with the translucent drape cast over his belly and thighs like a visual tease, designed to lure Prowl in by the libido.

Prowl didn't mind the other fabrics, but he really liked the silk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Normal brain - weft and warp are the perpendicular threads/strands that weave together to form a fabric. Yada yada relationship metaphor, yada yada. 
> 
> Expanding brain - Silk is sexy. Jazz draped in silk is v sexy. 
> 
> Galaxy brain - PROWL IN BLANKET GO


	12. Felicitous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz finally gets under Prowl's plating, and which one is luckier is up for debate.

There were few mechs who could consider themselves as lucky as Jazz considered himself right here and now.

At some point, Prowl had finally given up resisting Jazz' weapons grade charm offensive and responded with some flirting of his own. From then every new stage of success happened with exponentially decreasing time, until they went from trading chaste kisses to full on sloppy make-out against the wall of Jazz' quarters within breems. 

Jazz was enjoying himself and what Prowl's glossa was doing halfway in his own mouth very much indeed, right up until he hitched a thigh up against Prowl's hot interface plates and got pushed back firmly.

"I need to tell you something," stuttered Prowl, heat steaming from his vents copiously. "I'm sorry I should have told you before, many mechs have not liked it, but it hardly something I can change, I..."

Jazz cut him off with a soft kiss, trying to soothe the raging lust through his field. It wasn't often Prowl got so worked up that he babbled.

"What's wrong, Prowler?"

"Uh..." Prowl paused for so long Jazz was almost afraid he had locked up, but then he shook himself and stiffened his struts. "Perhaps it is better to show you..."

Jazz watched open mouthed as he transformed his pelvic plate back and his spike stiffened out.

And oh  _ Primus _ . What a spike!

It was a lovely gleaming black and white, platelets squeezed tight and glossy along the protoform. And, best of all, it was  _ huge _ , hanging loosely under its own weight even with as hard as it was.

"Oh..." breathed Jazz, dropping to his knees reverentially. "Oh Prowler... You're gorgeous... Come here, yeah?"

Prowl staggered forward, as if drawn in by wires. He looked stunned by his good fortune, especially as Jazz reached out to him and grasped him around the base.

His digits barely closed about the girth. Oh Jazz was a lucky mech. He loved a big spike.

"Oh, I want to taste you," sighed Jazz, rubbing his cheek along the silky surface and purring at the ozone rich scent of a mech's array throbbing with charge. Above him Prowl moaned.

"You don't mind... it?" said Prowl carefully, sounding a bit like he was about to choke on his own glossa.

"Mech," said Jazz, looking up and meeting Prowl's anxious gaze. "I love it. I'm gonna get this thing in every one of my ports before the cycle is done, trust me." He could see Prowl's logic centres struggle to cope with that. It was delightful. "So we better make a start, huh?"

He licked a stripe over the very tip of Prowl's glorious, huge spike and laughed as the mech's vents choke and his engine roared. He didn't give the mech a chance to recover, just manoeuvred the tip onto his glossa and slid down until his intake sent alerts. But Jazz had sucked a good deal of spike, has even had his frame modded for easier use, so he pushed further and barely gagged as the thick unit popped through the narrow end of his intake and into his throat tubing. He forced his mouth further down, feeling his jaw pop a little further open as he did so, until he was pressing his face plates into the mech's pelvic protoform.

"Oh Primus!" Prowl nearly wailed. He clutched at the back of Jazz' helm, careful around his audial horns, and nearly doubled over as he was sucked down and milked. Jazz was quite happy to make him suffer, making thick humming noises of contentment. He drew back a few inches and then forward again to let everything slide down a bit further, and Prowl  _ sobbed _ above him. "Jazz!"

He continued like that for a few kliks, fucking his own throat in a manner that most mechs would not tolerate, but,  _ ooh _ , it was nice to be so split open and ruined like this. And poor Prowl could only clutch at him and sob in pleasure, a broken mech. When he finally overloaded, he did so with a heartfelt moan, wrenched from the very spark of him, and Jazz's tanks pinged an overfull alert moments later.

Withdrawing was a slow, careful process, to prevent his tanks from abruptly purging. Prowl whimpered the entire way, wincing with oversensitivity until his spike popped free and he could take a step back and abruptly sit down on his aft.

Jazz crawled over him, leaning their frames together companionably. His vocalizer was too shocked to manage sound, but Prowl wouldn't let him have a word even if he could speak. He soothed him with soft affectionate words, praised his skills and his frame, just about everything about him, echoing his words with worshipful touches.

"Do you like doing that?" Prowl finally managed, sounding fragile and unsure and miserable and hopeful all at the same time. Jazz dreaded to think why.

His vocaliser clicked and popped a little when he managed to speak. "Yeah, Prowler. Otherwise I wouldn't. You know me -if I don't wanna do somethin', I ain't doin' it."

"No one has ever..." Prowl paused and blushed. "I mean a couple of mechs of my frame- type tried once or twice. But I think my size rather put them off." 

"Bet there's a fancy convoy or warframe out there that wouldn't have minded."

Prowl shrugged. "Probably. Praxus was quite conservative however. Even you would have been too exotic to approve of."

Jazz chuckled. He was a basic Staniz light transport frame, overwhelmingly basic bar the world-beating personality and a whole range of secret mods that ranged from sexy to deadly depending on which was required. Outwardly  _ exotic _ wasn't quite the right word. 

"They wouldn't approve of me?" He teased, pretending to pout. 

"Praxus would have  _ despaired _ of you," said Prowl with undeniable fondness. "But they disapproved of me as well, so here we are."

"They don't' know what they're missin'," said Jazz, easing himself even more into his lover's lap. It's all getting a little melancholy for his tastes. "A lovely big thick spike like that just needs a little practise is all."

"And you've practised?"

Jazz nodded and grinned. "I put the work in, Prowler, trust me. I want that spike in my valve you know."

Prowl's smile froze again. "I'm too big."

"The perfect size," said Jazz, "You'll fit."

"I don't think you've taken anything this size before..."

"Mech, just wait 'til you see my toy collection."

"I don't want to hurt you!"

"Prowler, I just fit your spike down my  _ throat _ ."

"Jazz..." Prowl's excuses were running dry. He just needed a little more.

He went for the kill, leaning in and kissing the last concern off his glossa. "Now I don't want ya thinking I wouldn't have fallen to my knees and blown yer pretty processors if ya had anythin' different under there. But whatever mech or femme made ya think that there were somethin wrong with ya was a glitch. Sure a big spike ain't for every mech, but there ain't nothin' wrong with havin' one. And luckily for both of us, I love em." He grinned, all teeth and self confidence, and felt his spark leap with delight as Prowl's hiked high doorwings started to calm a little.

"You're sure?"

"I love 'em big," purred Jazz, sensing his opportunity. "Big and thick, just right to stretch out my valve or my port." He touches his throat, just over where his vocaliser still echoed with the remnants of charge. "The feel of you in my intake, Prowler... I coulda overloaded from that alone. I'll do that every orn if ya want..."

Prowler whined faintly. Against Jazz' aft his spike started to thicken and harden again.

"I can't imagine how good you'll feel in my valve," he sighed, sliding his servos down his chest and abdomen, slipping into the joints of his hips. "You'll press up against every sensor, even the sensitive ones at the top. Ooooh..." He shivered delicately. "Come on Prowler, let me ride your spike."

Jazz was  _ such _ a lucky mech. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #bigdickProwl4lyfe
> 
> I feel like this is not really a problem for a species that can apparently replace most body parts and exists in a spectrum from toaster to city sized but hey ho. Porn waits for no logic.


	13. Virtue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz has yet to learn patience, but Prowl is an excellent teacher.

Not that Prowl didn’t like when Jazz was eager - far too often the mech was too cool for his own good - but he had a limit. 

For example, grinding his own palm against his firmly closed panels in order to get the most out of the vibe Prowl had so kindly placed there earlier.  _ Without _ permission. 

“Jazz!” Prowl snapped his datapad down with a crack on the table. HIs pet lurched up guilty, visor burning iridescent with arousal, and very slowly slid his servo back down his thigh to the approved position as if he hadn’t been self-servicing seconds before. 

“Yes, Prowl?” Jazz had not quite mastered honorifics either, but Prowl had since spanked the tendency to call him ‘Prowler’ during a scene out of him. Goals had to be achievable after all. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked, standing and pacing over. Jazz cocked his helm back in a particularly appealing way, coy and meek, but Prowl was made of sterner stuff. “Well?”

“I was…” The mech squirmed. “It just…”

“Breaking rules again,” sighed Prowl. “Should I be surprised?” He let his doorwings slump in mock dejection and Jazz nearly writhed with guilt. Or possibly the urge to grind the vibe tighter to his anterior node. “I suppose it’s my own fault for thinking you could behave until our guest arrived.”

Jazz pouted. Prowl lightly tapped his cheek with the palm of his hand in reprimand. 

“If you can’t behave, then ask for assistance,” he instructed, “But if you think you can and don’t…”

Leaving the threat hanging was often the worst thing he could do for the imaginative little imp knelt at his feet. Prowl liked strict instructions and behaviour to the letter; Jazz was the improviser. 

“I’ll behave,” said Jazz and earned himself another slap on the opposing cheek. 

“You had better.” Prowl fixed him with a gimlet glare and then turned away abruptly to go back to the table. 

To Jazz’ credit he did try. Initially, Prowl could see him fix his servos into fists on his thighs, bow his helm and try to focus; he might have even succeeded in overcoming his urge to fidget but for the remote control in Prowl's subspace. 

WIth the first click, Jazz’ frame stiffened and shuddered briefly, his fists tightened until they creaked, but there was no movement. Prowl flicked his digit across the datapad he was pretending to read and dutifully scanned the next page before he turned the setting up another notch. HIs pet’s shoulders yanked back and his helm jerked up, a strangled noise escaping his vocaliser. 

Prowl shushed him, not unkindly, and then clicked the remote a third and fourth time in quick succession. 

The buzzing was audible now, a muted metallic hum not disguised by the groan of Jazz' fans and the static crackle of electricity. 

"Prowl…" whined the mech. 

"Quiet," said Prowl firmly. "Good pets are seen and not heard." 

Jazz choked on whatever reply he meant to make. Out of the periphery of his vision, Prowl could see the distraught look on his handsome face. 

"We can always stop?" He suggested. "You know how to say you've had enough." His pet shook his helm so hard his visor rattled. "Then sit pretty like a good boy." 

In Prowl's mind this was one of the best parts, watching absently as his lover shivered and fought and buckled bit by bit, trying so hard to be good. But of course, Prowl didn't intend to make it easy and the remote control was so close at hand… 

One last turn of the switch took it up to maximum. 

Jazz went all stiff, mouth clenching hard enough to make his dentae creak, as he overloaded. Sparks flew as his charge blew out, and his back arched and his cables tensed and spasmed. Prowl watched, outwardly dispassionate, as the mech was reduced to a shuddering heap and inwardly considered his options greedily, hungrily. 

He turned the remote down to the lowest thrum and set it on the table beside his datapad as he stood. 

"What did I say would happen if you couldn't behave?" He murmured. Jazz attempted to reorder himself, but his frame still shuddered with the aftereffects of his overload and sitting pretty and proper was beyond him. He could just about cast a despairing look up at his master as Prowl advanced but his visor swam with enough interference he could probably barely see. 

Prowl had barely touched him yet. How delicious...

"What shall we do with you?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're going full porn ahead now. God help us all.


	14. Punishment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl has to use a firm hand to keep Jazz in line.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sequel to 'Virtue'

"What shall we do with you?" 

Jazz quivered and whimpered, leaning into the touch Prowl bestowed gently over his cheek. 

"It's my own fault really," he mused, enjoying the guilt writhing at his pedes. "Telling you all about the plans for this evening and then expecting you to wait quietly." Jazz managed to not respond; Prowl could feel him biting his own lip to keep quiet, and his spark swelled with pleasure at the thought of the effort Jazz had to put in to obey. 

"But still…" he added, "I warned you. You didn't listen. What happens to pets who don't listen?" 

He tweaked the tip of an audial horn. Jazz jerked and hissed, "They get punished." 

"Well done." He stepped away then, and crossed to the sofa. Here he had laid out any and all tools he felt might be needed, and he surveyed the collection thoughtfully. Behind him there was the soft clatter of armour as Jazz rearranged himself, and when Prowl cast a look back his pet was at least  _ attempting _ to sit pretty. 

"Good boy," said Prowl and made his selections. A thick rope, in a bright electric blue, and his favourite metalmesh crop. He looped the former around his forearm and delicately tucked the handle of the crop between Jazz' teeth. "Make yourself useful, pet." 

He hadn't plans for anything elaborate tonight - inviting Ratchet over had a certain goal in mind and he didn't want to tire either of them out before they reached it - so he opted for simple firm knots. He bound Jazz's forearms together from the elbow down, yanked firmly into the small of his back, and then carefully threaded rope through the last set of knots, over each hip and down around the joint groove at the crux of his thighs. It focused attention right over his pelvic plate, locked shut as per his instructions, and added a very aesthetically pleasing stripe down each side of his wide aft. He considered binding the mech's thighs as well, but he wasn't sure what Ratchet would want when he arrived, so for convenience sake he left it. 

When he took the crop back, the shaft was damp with oral lubricants, no further dents in the metal than had been left by Jazz' teeth the last time.The crop was a smooth mesh, formed over a sheet of pliable plastic at the tip, solid enough to sting Cybertronian armour. Prowl had owned it for a long time and wielded it on a lot of recalcitrant pets, but applying it to Jazz was particularly enjoyable. He could see Jazz' optics trail after the end as it snapped a few times experimentally. 

With the whip, or his own servo, Prowl would have Jazz count the blows, but the crop was a more delicate item and he found setting a number at the start ruined the fun. Instead he trailed the soft end across Jazz' cheek. 

"Your code?" he asked and nodded at the promptly delivered comm message. "Well done. Perhaps I won't be too harsh on you then." 

Jazz pouted. Honest to goodness  _ pouted _ . Prowl chuckled to himself and then snapped the crop across a headlight sharply. 

"Is that the sort of face I want to see on my pretty pet?" He barked. "Instead of pouting I think you should be thanking me for not whipping you stupid!" He landed another three hard blows; headlight, bumper, headlight. Jazz gasped near silently with each blow. 

"Yes Prowl," he managed when the sting from the last slap had started to fade. "Sorry, Prowl! Thank you!"

At least he looked a little more repentant now. Prowl trailed the chrome detailing of the first headlight he had struck, until Jazz wriggled almost imperceptibly under the touch, and then whipped him again. So it went, he teased and stroked and pet, circling the kneeling mech like a predator, and then at the first hint of weakness, pounching. He caught the trailing ends of the rope dangling under Jazz' hands and used them as counter pressure to push him forward to the floor and apply the crop to his handsome aft and then the widespread palms of his servos. Jazz sobbed at this cruelty, and Prowl snapped the tip of the crop sharply down between his thighs, right where his poor valve was still being tormented by the low Hertz of the vibrator as a reminder it could be much worse. 

Ratchet pinged him his updated ETA - half a joor off now. Prowl took the opportunity to step back and consider his prey. 

He did like the crop, but it left no marks; Jazz was a drooling, whimpering mess by the time he was done but his paintwork gleamed as if Prowl hadn't beaten him until his own shoulder ached. Previously Prowl had daubed the end of the crop in paint and very much enjoyed the patterns he had produced, or broken out his long whip that could strip paint from armour, but he had had little time. Anyway, there was always the easiest way of generating a few marks. 

His own servos were white and Jazz' lovely aft was a pretty midnight black. He clapped two matching servoprints down, one on each side for symmetry, and hauled his pet back up to kneeling. 

Much better.

"Prowl…" whined Jazz, lower lip swollen when he had been biting on it and expression bereft and sweet. Prowl's spark throbbed again, but not quite as hard as his interface array. He turned abruptly to resist the urge to have the mech here and now, and tidied up his equipment back into its neat row. 

When he turned back Jazz had gone quiet and still. It often took some time to get him to this state, but it was well worth the effort just for the slightly dreamy look he got as Prowl bent down to him and kissed him once. 

"Good mech," he said, "Do you remember your code, Jazz?" 

The mech nodded slowly, but the stop code appeared in Prowl's Urgent Inbox in an instant. 

"Good." He stepped back and returned to his desk and his datapad. "Now, be  _ patient _ ." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we thought Prowl was the one who was whipped. *snorfsnorfsnorf* 
> 
> I just went back to work after a week off and I'm delirious.


	15. Reward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz gets what he wants; Prowl and Ratchet have to gang together to give it to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sequel to Punishment

Ratchet paused well down the corridor and recollected himself. 

There was still room and time to call and cancel - he always left himself enough just in case of cold pedes - and he considered his situation closely before deciding that would not be needed. 

Just because he played dominant means he didn't have to care for himself. He had backed out of plenty of scenes and rarely regretted his decision in hindsight. 

This time it was Prowl who had invited him to a session between him and Jazz, on the off chance that Ratchet might give a few educational pointers. 

Jazz, Prowl had explained over two cubes of highgrade, wanted to be choked, and Prowl hadn't any idea how a mech might go about it even vaguely safely. 

Well Ratchet had said there was no real safe way of tackling it, because fuel supply to the processor wasn't optional, but he did have some tips and tricks if Prowl wanted to know. 

And Prowl had wanted a  _ demonstration _ . Well, not on himself because his tac unit was too fussy for such shenanigans, but perhaps on the willing victim that was Jazz. 

Ratchet had confirmed willingness - Jazz had grinned sharply when asked 'why?' and purred something about trust and power and death that made Ratchet simultaneously rather scared and very turned on - and now here he was. 

Prowl answered the door promptly at his knock and Ratchet stepped inside without a word. Inside the quarters were softly lit and already smelling of ozone. In the centre of the little living space, Jazz knelt on a small mat, helm bowed and hands bound behind him. 

"Have a seat," suggested Prowl, gesturing to a chair. "Can I get you some fuel?" 

He eyed the kneeling form as he sat, admiring the smooth curves and hard angles of the mech's frame. Jazz was one of those mechs Ratchet tended to encounter in pieces, so it was a pleasant change to see him intact and, aside from two livid white servoprints on his aft, unmarked. 

"A midgrade," he accepted. "Highgrade is a bad idea before this kind of thing. You two ain't had none?"

'Both of us are sober," said Prowl, handing him his fuel. "Dear Jazz doesn't need highgrade to make bad decisions." 

"I bet. He keep you busy?" 

Prowl gestured to the sofa, where Ratchet could now see a surplus of toys laid out and categorised, from inhibitor patches and false spikes to a glorious steel whip coiled in a figure of eight and bundles of multicoloured ropes. 

"He's a nightmare," said Prowl fondly. "Needs a firm hand and Prinus forbid you forget it. But get him down deep.." he gestured. "And he'll sit there for joors without a flinch."

They spoke and laughed and chatted a few breems, Ratchet watching as Jazz sat still and silent, drifting slowly side to side and front to back as his gyroscopes rocked to the pulse of his own spark. There was a soft, distant murmur of vibration and a superficial scan spotted the source trapped between a pelvic plate and swollen valve mesh. 

Finally, at a lull in the conversation, Ratchet changed his attentions. "Jazz - you still want to be choked?" 

Jazz' helm swung slightly towards him and his mouth eased open but his vocaliser stayed silent. 

"Speak up," said Prowl. "You were asked a question."

"Yes," he hissed, sibilant and drowsy. "Yes, please, Ratchet. Please Prowl."

Ratchet stood and crossed to him, knelt down face to face and stared through the flickering pixelation of his visor to the optics beneath. "You can say stop at any time." 

Jazz nodded and then there was a ping of an urgent coded message in Ratchet's comms - agent compromised, immediate extraction required. He startlednd then glanced up to Prowl. 

"Apologies," said the mech, "We have an agreement to use comms as a flag to stop. Do you not approve?" 

Ratchet shook his helm and heaved himself to his pedes. "Nah, just caught me by surprise. Smart idea." He hooked a digit under Jazz chin. “Where do our limits stand?”

"You are welcome to as much as you wish to try, unless he comms," said Prowl, "We've discussed it in lurid detail - you know what Jazz' imagination is like."

“All right,” said Ratchet and surveyed the pet at his pedes again. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

Playing with energon access to the processor was, in Ratchet's esteemed opinion, a dumbaft idea. But if a mech like Jazz got it into his squirrelly little datachips that that was what he wanted, he would get it  _ somehow _ . Ratchet could provide the unadvisable goal safely at least. 

He took position first, half knelt behind Jazz and with an arm around the base of his throat. Most of his pressure here would be over the mech's collar facing, the safest place for it, and also mean if Jazz had a poor reaction Ratchet was less likely to get a fatal stab wound.

"Avoid the vocaliser," he advised the intently watching Prowl. "Especially if you want to hear him moan for you again soon, because the parts are premium." 

He squeezed briefly, scanning the substructures as they shifted and flexed under his grip. Jazz, surprisingly, relaxed into the hold and Ratchet put to bed any concerns he had about getting shanked. 

The next squeeze lasted a bit longer, just enough to crimp off a few lines and keep them crimped for the length of his grip. Jazz' helm fell back against Ratchet's shoulder kibble, his visor swimming with pixels. The vents under his bumper and across his flanks popped open in an attempt to cool his swimming processor, and his cooling fans roared 

"Looks like it's matching up to your fantasy." He released his grip abruptly and Jazz jolted as energon flow returned to his processors. Prowl was still watching hungrily and Ratchet decided he should put them both out of their misery. "Give me your servo, Prowl.." 

He fixed digits in the ideal places, to avoid crushing the specialist vocaliser components but to put pressure on the energon cables instead. Jazz stared up at his lover with a look that bordered on worshipful, and Prowl's expression only grew hungrier. "Short squeezes at first. Give him a little taste." 

Prowl squeezed and Jazz' expression took on a dreamy quality, soft and relaxed. Ratchet told him when to release and when to squeeze again and they both watched as the mech shivered and bit his own lips in pleasure. 

"A little longer this time," suggested Ratchet, surprised by how hoarse his vocaliser was running. Prowl did as directed and held his choke; Jazz melted into his touch, pressing more and more weight onto the hand on his throat until Ratchet cleared his vocaliser in warning. Prowl snapped his hand back and Jazz nearly buckled to the floor, caught only by Prowl's thigh against his torso. 

"Too much?" asked Prowl. 

"Remember the vocaliser." Ratchet had visions of complicated - and in Jazz' case - specialised components cracking under a heavy hand. He didn't want to have to source parts. He  _ really _ didn't want to explain  _ why _ he was sourcing the parts. 

The mech grunted and jostled the weight plastered to his thigh, still panting to clear the fog from his processor. "Sit up, pet. Slouching is unbecoming." 

Jazz obeyed, wobbling slightly, and turned his helm up to display his throat again. 

"Much better," said Prowl. "Do you want more?" 

The mech nodded.

"Then you must sit prettily, do as you are told and we will ruin you all you like."

Jazz' field glittered with excitement.

They played with him for a long while, gradually amping up the time the choke was held and watching the writhing, wriggling capitulation. Ratchet circled the scene to watch from every angle, enjoying the contrast of Prowl's straight backed unforgiving persona against Jazz' grovelling. 

On one lap, he bumped a hip against the table and the movement drew his attention to a little remote control left by an empty cube. Realisation struck with the memory of the clever little vibrator squeezed tightly under a panel.

"He definitely likes it," said Ratchet, eyeing the controls on the remote. He clicked it up a notch in time with Prowl's next squeeze and smirked at the open mouthed, stunned response. "You could make him overload like this."

"I could," said Prowl, grinning in a particularly nasty way as he caught on to the increase in vibrations. He took his squeeze a few moments more than previously, until Jazz' visor was starting to flicker, and then released sharply. Ratchet thumbed the intensity switch right down to the lowest setting. "But otherwise, I could stay here and torture him like this all night."

"You need a hobby." Ratchet settled back into his chair, admiring the view again- the handsome, arrogant lines of Prowl's wings and straight back, looming over Jazz' kneeling, lovely form, bound and at their mercy.

"I have one." Prowl caressed an audial horn.

"Another hobby that don't involve breaking Spec Ops agents down to drooling messes."

They timed another few pulse and releases, until there was a spill of oral lubricants down the mech's chin to echo the conversation. He might have been putting it on, but Ratchet doubted they was enough energon reaching any circuits for the mech to engage in any cunning. Jazz was a mech very close to the end of the rope, and they all knew it. 

"Come on then," growled Prowl, leaning in sharply. Jazz' world must have been reduced down to his partner and little else at that moment, just enough energon seeping through a tight grip to run his base-level processors, never mind his sensory suites. It would be the snarl of Prowl's voice, the sight of his stern face twisted with wicked delight and the implacable grip on his throat, in tandem with the increased buzz from the vibrator.

Jazz overloaded then and there, to his master's command. Prowl bore the discharge of voltage through his digit tips for a few moments, and then abruptly released his grip; the mech crumpled to the floor in a shower of sparks and nearly wailed with the intensity of his processors springing back to life.

Ratchet flicked the remote to off and tossed it back to the table.

"You said something about lurid details earlier?" he said, taking up his cube to swill the last of it down. His core temperature had spiked sharply at the end, watching Jazz shudder and come undone under his lover's control. He had joined them to be a teacher, but found himself tempted to accept more

Prowl, eyeing the overheating heap at his pedes with a strange mix of fondness, possessiveness and lust, replied, "If I never have to sit through another breem of conversation about your presumed interfacing skills it will still be too soon."

Ratchet popped his digit joints thoughtfully, one after another. "Want to sit through a demonstration instead?"

Prowl looked up and grinned. "Better last more than a breem though."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What a kind obliging soul Ratchet is.


	16. Risky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz is normally a walking death-trap, but this time Prowl's managed to get him lying down.

While Prowl wasn't the most tactile of mechs he did enjoy getting his servos on Jazz now and then. He had that nice smooth chestplate, trim abdomen and an aft that any mech would covet. 

He reacted so prettily too, pushing into gentle touches and making handsome sounds. There was a particular type of sigh he made that made Prowl's revs hit the redline instantly. 

Today this was his goal, to slide his palms across armour plates and trace the corners and angles, the delicate rub of chrome. Jazz was in reasonably good repair for once, but there was still the odd place where his shiny finish held grooves and rough metal, scars and burns, and Prowl lingered here to catalogue each and every point. 

"What happened here?" He asked trailing his fingers over a blistered area of plating the length of his left thigh. It hadn't been there the last time they had interfaced. 

"Didn't dodge quick enough from a nullray " said Jazz, pushing the thigh firmly into Prowl's servo. He had been distracted when Prowl had started, listening to some of his tunes, but now he had put his music away and was wriggling under Prowl's digits. It was rare but no less enjoyable when it was this way around. 

It did have some negatives though. As Prowl slipped questing fingers into the gap of a transformation seam, a digit tip slid directly over the edge of something sharp. 

He withdrew with a pained hiss, shaking his hand out to dull the sting. 

"Ah, slag!" Jazz reached out. "Prowler, I'm sorry!" 

"Dare I ask?" He muttered, examining the finger - the delicate metal of his digit tip was split in a thin line, oozing droplets of energon from a few ruptured capillaries. Even as he watched, his self repair nanites were clotting and closing the wound. 

Jazz fidgeted with the seams and subspace of his thigh and withdrew a nasty looking dagger. 

"You keep that in your  _ thigh _ ?" 

Jazz shrugged. "It's a good hideyhole. Anyone searches there you can distract em easy enough unless they're real determined." He set the dagger aside and splayed his thigh into Prowl's hand again. "How determined are  _ you _ ?"

If there was a prize for being obstinate, Prowl would win it. A small wound wouldn't put him off for more than a few moments. Soon he was over the top of Jazz again, stroking his wide hips as they kissed slow and sultry. Wires and cables entwined around his fingers, hot with Jazz' energon, and he thumbed down the pulse of a thick line until... 

"Ow!" 

This time he sat up and stared down at Jazz in frustration. The mech grinned unself-consciously, and extracted the culprit - a small glass dagger. 

"How many of these things do you have?" 

The mental calculation took a few moments more than Prowl would have liked. Especially when the answer was a  _ shrug _ . 

"Oh really?" He sighed and watched as Jazz dropped the blade to the side, paused and then extracted a nasty iron saw from the other side. "Is that all?" 

There was a certain amount of fussing and shuffling and contortionism and Jazz produced a pile of weapons that Prowl mostly recognised. There were some - sharp needle like structures from the outer seam of a forearm, and something that was presumably electrified from under a shoulder tyre - he didn't care to examine too closely. 

"You are a walking armoury," said Prowl, "How do you not rattle when you move?" 

"I'm a tight fit," grinned Jazz. "Wanna find out what else is?" 

Prowl considered the huge pile of weaponry, his libido was champing at the bit but given his still stinging thumb he thought it safer to be a bit circumspect about plowing ahead, as it were, no questions asked. 

"Have you-" he started. 

"No Prowl," said Jazz, "There ain't no surprises tucked up in my valve. Primus." He crossed his legs and shuddered dramatically.

"In my defense," said Prowl, gesturing to the little pile of death beside them.

Jazz threw his helm back and laughed, a deep rolling chuckle that set Prowl into snorts of laughter too. 

"Ok, ok," he managed, vocaliser stilling hiccuping with amusement. "I promise there's nothing up there. Only the safest place to put your spike, nicely cushioned and everything." He descended into more spluttering cackles and Prowl sat back on his haunches, despaired a little but wouldn't be too distracted. He'd get what he wanted in the end.

And anyway, while it wasn't that little sigh he was aiming for, Jazz' laughter was more than pleasant enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jazz is an Occupational Health violation brought to life even by giant metal death machine standards.


	17. Stressed Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz' temper is all the worse not because it's vicious, but because it's unexpected.

As infuriating as he normally was, Jazz had reached a stage of aggravation that Prowl had not experienced before.

The mech was a menace to Prowl’s carefully laid plans on a good cycle, but over the last few orns he had become a hazard onto himself. He took risks in the field, he pulled good agents from missions and placed himself in their stead, and when he couldn’t justify that, he monitored the situation like Red Alert on the verge of a meltdown.

In some ways, Prowl could not blame him – but a half a vorn earlier, the Decepticons had changed their attitude to the normally tolerated sabotage and spying both sides had been undertaking. Four SpecOps had been rumbled: two had made it back under their own steam or after extraction, a third had come back in pieces and the fourth was still in enemy servos. The Autobots had no captives or suspects to trade.

Jazz was  _ stressed _ . And it was becoming apparent that when Jazz got stressed, everyone else  _ suffered _ . 

A view of the rec room from where Prowl was tucked into a corner showed it instantly. There was no hum of music, what speech there was was low and miserable. Ironhide leant over his table and sulked with no drinking buddies; no one had dared to drag Optimus out of his office for cycles. There was no gregarious racer teasing Bluestreak out of his nervous chatter, leaning over Cliffjumper’s shoulder and making easy fun to soften the snarl of his suspicions or casually cheating at Smokescreen’s card games. Sunny and Sides sat tucked in another corner, unusually quiet and nervous – they had pulled a recent series of shenanigans which had resulted in temporary damage to the communication arrays, and Prowl had been the one to step in and ameliorate the punishment Jazz had been seething to dish out. Even the normally blithely ignorant looked uncomfortable – Wheeljack and Perceptor scuttled in and out for their energon and avoided the atmosphere like the rust plague.

Prowl surveyed the room once more, knocked back his energon and went hunting.

As a good SpecOps agent should be, Jazz was difficult to find even when he was acting like a lightning rod for all misery. Prowl patrolled the top decks for a while, pausing thoughtfully in every doorway and under each ventilation fitting until he was sure his prey was not nearby. 

Next he visited the medbay, where Ratchet denied knowledge of their TICs whereabouts but suggested Prowl should get a hold of him before Ratchet did. He visited the Security Office as well, but Red Alert was already on edge from the nigh palpable atmosphere and started to spark within breems of Prowl entering. 

He descended down the ship, into the bilges and brig and the storerooms and engine lockers. He checked each systematically, thoroughly, and finally came up with  _ nothing _ ...

It was only when he trailed back up to his own office, puzzling where on the Ark Jazz could be lurking did he find what he was looking for. 

His office chair was turned in the wrong direction from where he had last left it, tall back to the door. Immediately his battle computer leapt to action, his hand drifted to the access of his subspace to pull out a bolt pistol when the intruder spoke.

"You been stalking me down all cycle," said Jazz. 

"I comm'd you on the first shift," said Prowl, "But you ignored it."

"Got other slag to deal with, don't I?" 

Prowl shrugged. "Like acting like an overgrown sparkling perhaps?" 

The chair swivelled slightly, showing a glimpse of the edge of his visor. A warning signal, Prowl knew the visor mean he could see partially to the side and behind. He was being targeted. 

"Your poor attitude has gone from affecting your own work and your department's to most of the Ark. I have an elite crew scuppered by your inability to express a negative emotion." 

The leap was so quick it was barely perceptible; Prowl had been ready though and had braced so the impact of frame to frame only knocked him back against the door rather than the floor. 

"Wanna tell me I'm in the wrong for worrying about my mechs?" Jazz spat.

"No. I want you to find a way to cope with your worry that doesn't damage morale." 

"Yeah yeah I get it," snapped Jazz, baring dentae which Prowl could see were filed sharp. "When cheery happy Jazz ain't around to take all the slack up everyone realises they actually gotta talk to each other, and ain't that a damn shame. Imagine having to cope with the mess that each each other without me to do the dirty work. You want me back to run intervention. Primus forbid I get to have a bad day!"

"It's been three orns, Jazz. Time to get a grip."

"Charming. So I gotta suffer for the greater good?" 

"We all do, Jazz, it isn't you alone against the world!" 

"Prove to me it ain't!" 

"Talk to your mechs," he said, "Mirage, perhaps. He knows the SpecOps game." 

"And show him a commander splittin’ at the seams? I don't think so." 

"Smokescreen then. He has psychological training." 

"Smokey's a mechlin’." 

"Ratchet. Ironhide." He received sharp scoffs for each. "Optimus then!" 

Jazz laughed bleakly. "Like the Big Boss needs extra on his plate. Give it up." 

"You won't even talk to me," said Prowl, letting some of his own hurt seep through. "You'd rather sulk and worry the joors away in your dank little nest in the bilges than come to our berth. Do you see why I might be concerned about your behaviour?" 

There was a long tense silence. 

"I wanna slag someone very much right now," said Jazz tersely. "You're the only other mech in this room, so be careful." 

"Killing me might be a bad idea," suggested Prowl, "Perhaps we should frag instead?" 

Jazz looked at him for a long time. He gradually took his weight off Prowl’s frame and then shook his helm. "Nah," he said, "Don't wanna do that." 

Prowl was nearly offended: really, he was more concerned, Jazz  _ never _ turned down an interface. "Why?" 

"Ain't gonna ruin fragging with you by associating it with all this…" He waved his hands, fighting for the word, "Whatever it is.. Nah, mech, I ain't spoilin that." 

Prowl sighed. "I'm running out of suggestions Jazz. I wish to support you, but you make it difficult." 

Jazz stared at Prowl challengingly for a few moments and then turned about sharply.

The next sigh hissed out of all Prowl's vents. "Jazz," he said firmly. 

The mech refused to look round at him. 

"Jazz…" He shunted the desk out of the way with his hip to slip in in front of him, grasping his upper arms to hold him in place. "Perhaps I have phrased my approach poorly. I am worried about you. Not about your effect on the crew, not your lurking, or your absence from my berth. They are symptoms. I am worried about  _ you _ ."

For a moment he was afraid that there would be another explosion, but Jazz somehow collared his temper. He deflated in Prowl's grip, helm falling forward to knock against his bumper. 

"This is all just slag," he said quietly. "I lost a good mech, might lose another, coulda lost em all. I was underprepared and overconfident and.." He paused. "And we ain't winnin' Prowler." 

"I know," he said. 

"You know I ain't one to underestimate what in the Pit we're tacklin’ here, but I thought we'd see something by now. But I'm just throwing good mechs after bad and not even gettin’ a single win from it." 

"I know." 

"And I know that I ain't the only one that gotta do stuff like this, that gotta face the consequences, but Prowler, it's still real rough." Jazz cast his face up, expression despairing even with his optics hidden. 

"It's all just slag," suggested Prowl, judging it the right time. A flicker of a smile appeared against Jazz' mouth. 

"Yeah, sounds about right." He reached up and rubbed his helm. "Ah Prowler I feel like a right glitch. I'll have to apologise to the crew," he added. "'Specially Sunny and ‘Sides. I was well fragged off yesterday." 

Prowl shook his head. "Leave them; you are right in that they need to learn to interact with each other without you acting as the middle mech. And the twins will bounce back. Perhaps it has been a good lesson for them to learn." He shrugged. "Compared to our general level of personal dysfunction I think this once off still leaves you one of the more socially competent crew members."

"Nice way of saying 'don't let it happen again', that is." 

"Let us not pretend it won't happen. Let's just deal with it better. Might I suggest in the future should things become similar, you'll talk with me before I have to spend a cycle stalking you down?" 

Jazz nodded. "Yeah, seems fair." 

"And if you don't consider fraggin a good outlet for your anger, could I also suggest taking a leaf out of my book and flipping a table?" 

This time Jazz laughed - short and quiet, but still laughter. 

"That help you?" He said, voice faintly amused.

"Takes the edge off."

"Don't explain how often you do it then." 

Prowl smiled. "I have a lot on my plate." 

The amusement died abruptly on Jazz’ face plates. "Mech. I'm sorry." 

"Don't be." Prowl dared to reach up and cup a smooth cheek in his servo. "As Third and Second In command we have enough stress each. I doubt we need to have a competition as to who has it worse." 

Jazz leant into the touch a little more. "We'll be stressed together then." 

"Deal," said Prowl. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So believe it or not this actually started life as a thing to explain how Jazz and Prowl had fallen into the 'master/pet' thing they had in Virtue/Punishment/Reward. 
> 
> But Jazz kept getting angry, and i couldn't unwrite it and here we are. 
> 
> Poor baby needs a hug and maybe a nap.


	18. Communication Skills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are a lot of lessons for a medic to learn, and not all of them are in the textbooks. First Aid learns this courtesy of his commanding officers.

At night the medbay was quiet and still and not just a little creepy. First Aid had been left in charge of an empty bay before, but tonight was the first time there were occupants and it didn't help the strange atmosphere.. 

The battle had been hard fought and not clearly won by either side. Autobot casualties had been significant, and even after triage and surgery three mechs still needed close monitoring.

First Aid had been expecting to be seconded to the minor injuries jobs, as he had been previously - patching cables, rewelding metal damage, beating panels back into shape - but Ratchet had collared him with a snarled "If you're gonna be a medic, then you'll have to learn sometime."

He had been brought into surgery, commanded to sterilise his servos and found himself peering into Jazz' chest cavity, carefully plucking out shards of his crystalline spark chamber so Ratchet could tweezer a replacement pane into place. He had nodded seriously at Ratchet's descriptions of spark injuries, how to read the vital signs on the monitor but also how to detect the ebb and flow of a spark from the wisps across his digits. For the first time in real life, he looked directly on another's spark, admired the bright glow and the curious oddly- cambered spin he knew from the textbooks was rare. 

They had repaired and replaced a bevy of small delicate parts, tackled replacing a whole shoulder joint - articulated in an entirely idiosyncratic fashion - and eventually had had to call it when even Ratchet's experienced digits started to seize up. Aid had to soak his servos in warm oil for a joor after finishing, while the Chief Medic had gone off to check on Wheeljack's triage on the minor wounds. 

He hadn't meant to fall into recharge sitting there, but the surgery had been exhausting, physically and mentally. Ratchet had been kind enough to let him doze for a while, but when Aid had woken - by his frame losing balance on his seat and toppling forward into the oil bowl, of course - he had declared he was taking a rest in his office and that First Aid was the medic on call. 

Aid had chosen a seat behind a small desk in the corner. He had initially done laps of the bay, watching monitors anxiously, but as the joors wore on and his patients stayed stable he had settled down. Once in a while he glanced up to make sure no one was in difficulties unnoticed by the monitor.

Jazz recharged, still but stable, on the nearest berth. A few berths down Bumblebee had most of his helm melted into an uncomfortable mess, and beside him Bulkhead and his right leg occupied two separate berths. Ratchet had said that Aid would be tackling reunification as primary surgeon himself tomorrow so he had been reading a datapad on the surgical anatomy of the hip joint to keep himself awake. 

Halfway through a paragraph about the femoral energon linkage, one of his patients shifted on their beeth. It was a barely perceptible movement, bur their monitor flickered brighter to show their discomfort. Aid found it was Jazz, shifting his shoulders against the firm berth, rolling his helm aide to side. He had thought the sedation would have knocked him as flat as Bee and Bulkhead, but perhaps the saboteur had a better resistance? 

Jazz didn't fall back into recharge as Aid supposed he might, but continued to wriggle and move. His visor flickered and dimmed repeatedly but finally lit a thin glow from his optics beneath. First Aid watched the monitored vitals climb another few points and went to collect a further dose of sedative for his patient. He collected an extra pain chip as well on the way past.

As he drew up the dose, the medbay door hissed automatically and quiet footsteps clinked on the floor. Aid poked his head out - only senior officers had access rights during out of hours - and found Prowl making himself comfortable by Jazz' berth. 

Now here was a conundrum. If Prowl was here for information or debrief, then Jazz wasn't in any fit state. Ratchet would have sent him packing, but First Aid couldn’t do that to Commander Prowl. He could barely look the mech in the optics on a good day! He reminded himself that his duty was for his patients, steeled his spinal strut and then stopped dead as Prowl leant down and nuzzled his chevron aside Jazz' forehelm. 

"You've been singing to me like a drunken wayfarer," said Prowl, voice soft and fond, carrying clearly across the quiet bay. 

"Pro~wl..." murmured Jazz, vowels stretched and slurred. He rolled his head to peer at the mech leant over him and a dazed smile crossed his face plates. "Was I singing?" 

"Calling me," said Prowl. First Aid couldn't see much of his face in the dim.flickering light but perhaps there was a shadow of a quirked smile there. "Straight through my spark. Woke me right up." 

"I'm glad you're here," said Jazz. "I missed you." 

Prowl chuckled softly. "You are out of your processors, my Jazz."

Jazz' hand twitched and lurched upwards in a move that was probably inadvisable for a mech who had just had significant repairs to his upper frame. Luckily Prowl snagged the hand before he could cause more damage and tucked it tight to his chest. 

"I'm here," he said, "Go back to recharge, my love." 

From his hiding spot in the drugs room, First Aid's view made a lot more sense. He had wondered, earlier staring at Jazz' spark spin and pulse, that there had been a faint scar on its surface but had not asked and Ratchet hadn't said. The burn from a deep merge could leave a mark like that. Did Commander Prowl have an identical scar? 

Jazz was crooning now, quiet slurred glyphs in a babel of dialects. Prowl was watching thoughtfully, optics dim but his own servos still holding tightly to the hand against his chest. Had he felt the echoes of his mate’s pain? That's what the textbooks said, that sparks merged enough became synchronous over time and that emotions, pain, sensation rippled between them. There had been talk of quantum normally at this point which was where Aid's attention drifted: he had just thought it all quite romantic. 

It seemed closer to a horror story, given how close to deactivation Jazz had come. Had Prowl felt his mate wounded? Had he known the severity, had he crumpled under the pain or the bleakness as Jazz had crashed? Had he been sleeping as he said when Jazz had started calling for him through the bond, or had he been awake and worrying? 

First Aid watched what he could see of Prowl's face for a moment. He had not been asleep he decided. He had been waiting for his sparkmate. 

"I feel-" Jazz abruptly stopped singing. "Like I got stepped on by Menasor." 

"Given you got kicked into a quarry wall by Menasor," said Prowl, "I am not surprised. You had us worried. Ratchet barely cursed for a whole joor." 

"Uh oh," sang Jazz cheerily. His vitals had improved significantly since Prowl's arrival, so First Aid reconsidered the pain chip and settled for a lower dosage. 

"Jazz..." Prowl paused and sighed. "No, no point having a conversation like this with a mech half sedated. I'm just glad you... you're ok."

"I missed you, Prowler," crooned Jazz again. "You're my best half." 

"What I am is a mech with a sparkmate who needs to learn to dodge." He leant down and nuzzled him again. "I love you." 

Jazz keened with delight, the volume making First aid quite glad the other patients were heavily under their sedation. 

"But," added Prowl, straightening up and glancing over his shoulder to when Aid hovered in the doorway. "I think increasing your sedative dose might be in order." 

"Oh. Ah!" Aid tiptoed forward, awkward suddenly. But Prowl's expression was unconcerned and his hands still clasped around Jazz'. They didn't make it common knowledge - sensible given the risks- but perhaps it made sense not to hide it from the medics. If one went down for good, perhaps they could save the other with spark support. Or at least make sure they were comfortable when they succumbed too. 

To his credit, Aid’s hands barely shook as he slipped the injector into the energon drip and let the sedative flow. He reached up under Jazz’ shoulders and accessed the medical panel at the nape of his neck without looking, unclipping the last pain chip and swiftly inputting the fresh. 

"Good work," said Prowl. He was watching, optics still soft and dim and, now Aid realised, exhausted. 

Sitting awake and wondering if he would ever hear his lover again. 

"Stay as long as you want," First Aid heard himself say. 

"Thank you," said Prowl with a stately incline of his helm. Jazz was still watching him absently, optics dimming and dimming as the sedative rolled through his systems but his focus remained locked on his sparkmate. "I will stay for a while." 

"As long as you need," he repeated and excused himself. He returned with a blanket, heavy and scratchy but the best he could offer and gently placed it over the commander's shoulders. Prowl glanced up at him, bemused, but tolerated the action. "Try to get some recharge, sir. He's safe now." 

Prowl didn't reply, but Aid was not offended. He returned to his desk and his datapad, and dimmed the reading lights to a minimum. 

Quietly, Prowl set Jazz' hand back onto the berth, and shuffled a little deeper into the blanket. Then, quite un self-consciously, he crossed his arms up and laid his helm down beside Jazz' side. From a distance, it was still possible to see when his frame sagged into recharge. 

Maybe Ratchet wouldn't approve, but he was still sleeping - and even then it was risky to assume the Chief Medic’s actions. But right now First Aid was in charge. Medicine wasn't just fixing sparks and patching cables after all, it was empathy too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, First Aid. What are you doing in what is ostensibly my porn anthology? You're here to act as a convenient witness to have an interesting perspective on what is essentially a sick!fic? Well, ok then and thank you for your time.


	19. Realisations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl and Jazz make a discovery that warrants further investigation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prequel to Virtue/Punishment/Reward

Of all the Autobots, SpecOps mechs appeared almost always the most in control. Cool and calm, Jazz seemed the pinnacle of this to the rank and file. 

The rank and file had never seen Jazz hot off a mission, engine still running red hot and energon flowing fast. Calm, cool Jazz would saunter through the main doors, but revved up Jazz slithered in like poison, lurked and snarled ferally in the darkness. 

It was typically his own mechs who dealt with returning their commander to something a little more civilised, but occasionally Ratchet's services would be required. And this time, evidently even Ratchet's indomitable manner and sharp aim with the wrench weren't quite enough. Prowl answered the call for assistance. 

The medbay was locked, with Bee and a scratched up Hound standing guard outside. Prowl nodded to them both and stepped through into bedlam. 

Jazz was perched on the further most berth, teeth bared and plating smeared with energon and oil and coolant like a macabre masterpiece. Mirage was sponging the blood from his own face in the opposite corner and smiled weakly at Prowl as he entered. 

"He's not playing ball this time at all, sir." 

'So I can see," said Prowl. Ratchet was attempting to coax the wary saboteur a little closer, presumably so he could sink the big injector of what was presumably sedative into a handy line. Jazz was leery about the slow invasion of his space, and the noise rattling around in his frame grew frightening. 

Prowl had seen the impact of Jazz’ sound and light show on the battlefield. It had been startling enough from a distance, and he didn't fancy getting a front row view in a confined space. 

He could also see the slow build in tension in Jazz' limbs that meant a strike was imminent, growing with every slow move closer the medic made. And now, unseen by Ratchet, there was a knife in his hand, and the tension was still winding, winding...

"Enough!" He barked. "Jazz! Sit down!" 

And Jazz sat. 

Abruptly, sharply, helm ricocheting around to stare at Prowl. He seemed just as surprised as the other occupants in the room that he had obeyed. 

"Good," said Prowl, stepping forward. He passed Ratchet, pushing him a step further back just in case a stabbing was still on the cards. "Put the knife down." 

Jazz appeared to notice the weapon in his servo for the first time. He looked at it and then set it down slowly on the medberth. Even slower, Prowl reached out and claimed it, tucking it in a subspace. This brought him right up close with Jazz' wild expression and frazzled field. He felt like a mech that didn't know whether he was coming or going.

"Are you going to behave now?" He demanded, keen to push home the advantage while the mech was compliant. 

Jazz nodded faintly. 

"Words, Jazz. Use them if you please." 

There was a long pause, Jazz' gaze still focused on Prowl's face. His mouth opened and closed a few times because his vocaliser finally kicked into action. 

"Yes, Prowl," he said faintly. 

"Was that a 'yes I'm going to behave, Prowl'?" 

"Yes," whispered Jazz, "I'm going to behave." 

Strangely, his wobbling, neurotic field patterns were starting to settle. Prowl could feel a regular slow ebb and flow develop, slower perhaps than Jazz' normal range but better than the erratic spasms it had been previously. 

"Well done," said Prowl, and felt the rhythm slow and pulse in return. Jazz looked more and more dazed and quiesient, still watching Prowl's face like he had been sent from Primus. "Ratchet is going to give you something to take the edge off," he said, sensing the medic creeping up closer again. "And you're going to have a nice recharge while he fixes you up." 

"Yes Prowl," murmured Jazz, optics flickering ro the bulk of the medic slowly moving to his side. His field fritzed again.

"Look at me!" snapped Prowl. "Did I say you could look elsewhere?" 

With his focus on Prowl, Jazz sat patient and still, field quieting until it was akin to the soft hush of waves on a shore. He didn't flinch as Ratchet slipped the injector nozzle into the crux of his elbow, and gradually started to waver and wobble as the sedative sped about his system. Ratchet let Prowl catch him when his frame finally went limp. 

"Been a while since I thought he'd actually kill me," said Ratchet, conversationally, starting to connect wires and cables to his patient with the ease of experience. "Some trick you pulled there."

"Hmm." Prowl eyed the now silent saboteur with a curious optic. "I am just glad he had enough control to listen to sense. The next option would have been force." 

"I don't think it would have come to that," said Mirage quietly. Prowl started, he had almost forgotten the mech was there. "He listens to Prowl. He  _ likes _ listening to Prowl."

"Well, it’s a small mercy he does at any rate," said Ratchet, finally happy his patient was well sedated and secured. He turned to Mirage, who was still leaking energon down his plating from a split lip plate. "Right you. You'll need to shut up for a minute to get this fixed." 

Prowl took one last look at Jazz' still frame and excused himself to think. 

* * *

Prowl's door opened without a knock or an acceptance from the mech within. At his desk, Prowl merely sighed quietly to himself and focused harder on his current set of statistics. His door did have a terrible habit of doing this, typically because it would be Jazz was on the other side. 

"Hey Prowl." The mech in question slunk in. Prowl waved a hand at the seat on the other side of the desk; Jazz was going to bother him anyway, why try fighting. At least this way Jazz would sit quietly for a few moments and let him at least finish this series of calculations. 

Jazz did not sit still. Jazz never did, unless he was on a mission somewhere. He had once claimed he used all his stillness up in those moments, all his silence too, that was why he was so noisy and mobile the rest of the time. Prowl had disputed the logic of this, but there was little arguing with the mech. 

He was tapping his foot on the gridded floor now, having found a spot that made a particularly rich noise. Occasionally he would switch to the other pede and rattle it instead. The tempo was fast and erratic and aggravating.

"Stop fidgeting!" barked Prowl. 

Silence and stillness. Jazz stared across at Prowl, optics wide behind his visor, and didn't have a snappy comeback for once. 

Prowl closed his calculations and stared back. 

"I think," said Jazz slowly, "That we need to talk about this." 

"That might be advisable." He fetched a spare pair of cubes from his office supply - he rarely touched them, but some kind soul who was almost certainly Jazz kept them topped up and fresh - and passed one over. "This sort of reaction is new." 

"Maybe," said Jazz, relaxing a but more. He didn't fidget again, which Prowl was glad for. "I wasn't expectin’ it for sure." He looked over the rim of his cube almost shyly. The expression was new and rather captivating. "Weren't necessarily a bad thing though." 

"No?" Prowl sipped his cube. "I suppose it was not." 

"And anyway," continued Jazz. "I mean I always liked it when ya get bossy in the berth. Ya know, pullin’ me around, growlin’ at me to be quiet." His voice went distant. "Ya threatened to spank me ‘til I couldn't transform once." He hid his reaction behind the lip of the cube, starting to look a little flushed around the edges. 

"And you like that?" Prowl considered it. He had maybe been distracted the the time but on recollection he could see Jazz whimpering and mewling and becoming all the more enthusiastic for his rough behaviour. 

They had been lovers for a while. Not going steady, nothing serious, but a good way of burning the extra steam and stress that built with High Command, and it had never damaged their friendship nor their work habits. Prowl had felt the release often bettered his efficiency, and certainly it did seem to reduce some of Jazz' wilder behaviour. 

"I like it from you." Cube drained dry, it didn't provide a cover any longer, so Jazz started to turn it over in his servos. "Don't think I'd take it from any other mech." 

"Why?" 

The simple question seemed to baffle Jazz. He stared at the cube in his hands for a long time. Prowl gave him the space to think.

"I... dunno... I guess it just seems easier when you're in charge. Takin’ control of me."He seemed to find an inner seam of inspiration. "I was just so wild and angry and scared and ya arrived and spoke and everything just... went quiet. I didn't have to worry. I didn't have to fight or hide or fear anythin’, cause ya were in charge." He peered up. "I trust ya, mech. Primus help me but I do." 

Fondness swelled in Prowl's spark. He liked Jazz - oh he was an aggravating, noisy octane junkie with a deathwish, but he had a sensible spark, a smart processor and an aft that just wouldn't quit - and the sentiment was all the more deeper for how he understood his friend. Jazz didn’t trust easily.

"I'm glad," he said, reaching out a servo across the desk. Jazz had the opportunity to place his empty cube in it, but instead reached out his own hand. "I would like to be a mech you trust. In turn, I must say, I do trust in you as well." He squeezed his grip slightly. "I knew you would listen to me." 

"So what are we doin’ then?" asked Jazz. "Is this just some sorta weird foible that I'm just gonna get on with or..." 

"If you like to obey me," said Prowl. He had been thinking about this a lot, puzzling and hypothesising and researching. Some of the scenarios that had occurred had been very pleasant to think on "There is no reason why we could not incorporate it into our time together. You have said you liked it before when I was 'bossy' with you."

"Ya think we could?" Jazz looked pleased. 

"I like being bossy with you," he said, surprising himself with his honesty. "I liked pinning you down. I liked having you do what I wanted. When you became so calm and quiet because I told you to..." He shivered, letting all his plating clatter together. "It was enjoyable. I would not be averse to playing like that again." 

"Yeah," agreed Jazz, smiling broadly.

"We will have to speak at length about logistics and rules of course," said Prowl. 

"Mech...." Jazz pretended to slump in his seat dramatically, but Prowl held firm. 

"If we are playing like this, we will play safely," he said firmly, unable to fully hide his smirk at the theatrics. If Jazz didn't play it up now and then he wouldn't be Jazz. 

After a certain amount of fake swooning, Jazz pulled himself together and sat up. He leant in a little closer, and Prowl followed suit. The kiss was soft and chaste and the perfect seal to the agreement.

"Whatever ya say, Prowler," said Jazz.

Already Prowl had decided, the first thing that would go was the nickname.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy mood whiplash Batman; welcome back to porn-land.


	20. Opportunist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silence is golden, but what's better is fragging your mate silly in a closet because he can't talk. Prowl demonstrates.

Unsurprisingly, Jazz was a noisy frag. Regardless of the situation he seemed unable to hold his vocaliser, and had a whole repertoire of sounds that, while they made Prowl's fuel pump accelerate, also rather curtailed the areas they could engage in a little nookie if they didn't want to break regulations. 

Prowl had no compunction about fragging in semi-public spaces, but he did have a strict 'not getting caught' policy. Jazz just had no compunctions at all. 

But Prowl was also an opportunist; so when Jazz sauntered into the command meeting freshly released from a post mission medcheck with a jaunty wave instead of a cheery greeting, his audials perked up. 

"Success, Jazz?" chuckled Ironhide. "You look like the glitchcat that got the high octane." 

Jazz made an expressive gesture that indicated that of course he had succeeded, he  _ was _ the Jazzmeister, but without a blink of sound. He slouched into the chair beside Prowl and winked at him as Ratchet dropped into his own seat. 

"Fool's only gone and ruined the most complicated damn vocaliser this side of the galaxy," the medic grumbled. "To be fair he might make more sense now." 

Helms swung back to Jazz, who opened his mouth and no sound emerged. From his angle Prowl could see the cabling of Jazz' throat was extensively patched and covered, and the area he liked to nuzzle against to feel the thrum of vibration was hollowed inwards, missing some important structure. 

_me and blitzwing got into a bit of scrap_ came the comm message for Prowl's perception only _turns out a punch to the throat might not be preferable to just getting shanked. Damn near took my helm off!_

"Going to be a while before I can cobble together the parts to repair it," continued Ratchet, "Until then we have a silent observer." 

"Might be able to hear myself think for once," said Ironhide, pretending to cower when Jazz popped his shoulder speakers up threateningly. 

Without Jazz' input the meeting seemed a little dull, if not a bit more efficient than normal - no one had to pause for a moment to try and work out what had just been suggested. They dispersed quickly at the end, Ratchet pausing to cant Jazz' helm to the side and peer at his patchwork before grunting in satisfaction and taking his leave.

"Shall we get some fuel?" suggested Prowl. "Or has Ratchet got you on medgrade rations?" 

_what he don't know won't hurt him_ replied Jazz, falling in beside Prowl as they left the meeting room. _i could do with a nice cube of engex for one_

"I'll take on Ratchet over giving you midgrade," said Prowl absently, mentally surveying a map of the Ark. "But I am not tackling the high grade argument." 

_Prowler! I thought you cared about me!_ He laughed, moving physically but none of the sound appearing. 

Huffing, he nodded to a passing Cliffjumper and paused in his stride. Jazz stepped on a little further, then caught on and turned back. 

_Prowler?_

Cliffjumper disappeared off elsewhere; Prowl waited a few more moments for safety's sake, and then reached out and caught Jazz tightly around the waist. The door he had stopped them beside hissed open to his RFID code.

_Prowler!_ 

"Shall I show you how much I care?" He growled over a sensitive audial horn. 

_yeah please!_

He shoved Jazz through the door, pushing his back up against the wall, knocking his pedes apart with the ease of experience. The door slid shut, but the space they were in was cramped and the door was flimsy. Sound would travel easily and the corridor was a high traffic area.

_oooh risky, Prowler_ purred Jazz' glyphs. _I like it_

He did like it - popped his panels then and there, so Prowl could slip his digits up and help get him all warmed up and ready to go. When a thumb brushed over his plump anterior node his engine revved abruptly and then slid into silence. 

Prowl leant back, curiously. Even Jazz' vents had run silent, no more that a soft hiss to indicate their presence.

_stealth mode babe_ Jazz grinned at him. _you want me quiet, I'll be quiet_

"Don't make promises you can't keep," hissed Prowl. His spike was aching hard already and still tucked tightly behind his modesty panel, threatening to pop dents in his plaring. 

Jazz's grin widened and he pressed a single forefinger up against his lips in a coy gesture. Prowl's engine would have roared if he hadn't such iron control. Instead he growled and pressed his thumb up harder, eliciting a hitch of hips and the sight of Jazz' mouth dropping open in what would have been a moan. 

Silent as he was, his body was still keen and well trained to Prowl's touch. He stroked a digit through the plush lips and felt slick lubricant build quickly, until they were enough to wet his digits and push them deep inside. Jazz bit his lip and slung gis arms over Prowl's shoulders to hold on. Prowl kept stroking him, coaxing his charge higher and higher. WIthout the audio cues of his voice, he could focus on the visual hints - the flush of energon across face plates, the shift of his expression into desperation, how strong digits tightened against the back of his neck. 

Outside, easily audible, was the thud and tramp of mechs moving down the corridor. The shift change was in effect; mechs chatting loudly about their off-shift plans, how keen they were for their berths, how undelighted they were to head to monitor duty or patrol. Prowl leant in close to muffle his own fans’ whirr, and curled his digits to rub tight circles over Jazz’ inner sensory plexus.

Up close like this he could feel the flickers and curls in Jazz’ field which signalled his impending overload, how they tallied with every twitch on his face as he chewed his lip and let out another silent groan. Against Prowl’s frame his body was warming quickly, unable to clear the building heat from his system with vents closed and fans silent. Maybe the building heat made him more sensitive, Prowl didn’t have to do much more than keep plunging his digits deep, repeating the moves of his wrist that earned him the biggest twitches and the sweetest expressions. Jazz dug his grip in deeper and overloaded, silent aside from the crackle of sparks. HIs frame tensed, cables twanging, and then he sagged in Prowl’s grip.

“This damn ship creaks something awful,” complained Smokescreen, directly outside the door. 

They froze. Jazz was starting to look very flushed with internal heat.

“It’s an old wreck,” replied Sideswipe, voice growing fainter as they continued to move “Hey, do you think we could convince Bluestreak it’s haunted?”

In the relative peace that followed, Jazz popped open a single vent. Steam whistled out.

_i’ll hear nothing about ‘haunted old wreck’, thank you_ he comm’d. 

Prowl unhooked the hands from around his neck and applied a little enforcer magic to turn his lover faceplates first to the wall. 

“We’ll be hearing nothing just yet,” he murmured, retracting his own array plating and letting his spike press up between Jazz’ spread thighs. “Because I’m nowhere near done with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prowl's not as straitlaced as he appears to be. He might be the mech that writes the rules, but that just means he knows the best ways to break them.


	21. Foresight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They both can see where this clinch is going but neither of them can be bothered to care.

Jazz had one of those faces it was difficult not to like, handsome and open. Prowl found it very pleasant indeed - although he was also very careful not to fall into the trap that most others did. What you read on Jazz' face was what Jazz wanted you to read, not what was actually happening behind.

That was fine for Prowl's purposes, because you didn't need to be open as a book to service a valve properly. 

Normally he was more of a mech for spiking- but his valve array was perfectly functional and sensitive. When the mood took him there was a time and place for getting spiked himself, but, as handsome as Jazz' spike was, he had better attributes to apply as far as Prowl’s valve was concerned. 

Jazz, keen as ever, and previously getting up close and personal with Prowl's headlights, was easily lured into the right position. He sprawled comfortably on the berth and smiled into the kiss that Prowl bent to bestow on him.

"You want my valve?" He asked, exhaling a breath of cooler air across Jazz' mouth and smiling as denta worried a plush lower lip in immediate contemplation. Jazz' nod nearly knocked their forehelms together. "Yes, you do… How do you want me?" 

Their position - Jazz sprawled back and Prowl leaning down over him - clearly planted the idea that Prowl wanted him to have. He was pulled and grabbed and turned until his knees are buried in the berth covers either side of Jazz' grin. The view upside down remained handsome and Prowl told him so. 

"Flatterer," said Jazz, but his wild grin became slightly more fond and wistful, something slightly truer. Prowl leant down and kissed him once upside down. "You're telling Ratchet if you break my visor this time," he added and Prowl bit his lip in response. 

"You wanted me," he replied, straightening and shuffling forward. "So you'll get me, damn the consequences." 

The comeback, cheeky as it was, was muffled against Prowl's array plate and he knelt down a little more. Jazz grunted, but didn’t complain, just reached up to snag his hands around Prowl's thighs for leverage. 

He hadn't opened his plating yet, but he knew his valve was warm and ready, heated by his imagination and Jazz' nimble fingers running over his frame. They were currently dipping down the inside of his thighs, to run over transformation seams and tease the warming metal at the apex. He was pressing smooth, close-mouthed kisses to the closed panel, humming a jaunty tune under his breath. 

A glossa snaked out and licked a bold line down a panel edge, warm and wet, and Prowl's control over his clasps slipped. The panel folded in and away and Jazz had full access. Immediately, he took advantage. 

Well Jazz had a nimble tongue in a whole bunch of ways, and it was getting very up close and personal with Prowl's anterior node right now. He arched his back and pressed further down into the pressure, feeling the cables of his thighs jerking and shivering in tight little spasms. 

Jazz muttered something, the vibrations bouncing from his vocaliser. Muffled as he was by Prowl’s weight, it still sounded like a faint warning to be careful of the visor. 

“Less chat,” said Prowl, reaching out to curve a hand over the corner of Jazz’ prominent bumper and squeeze lightly. Jazz jolted, but stopped complaining and Prowl rewarded him with another squeeze and stroke over his chrome plated bumper. 

Thus motivated, Jazz’ focus swung back to his task. His glossa stroked and looped and teased over Prowl’s node, until he was groaning softly and he could feel how obscenely wet he was becoming. Jazz made an appreciative hum and then his broad glossa swept along Prowl’s valve mesh. He dived deeper, plunging in abruptly and while the flex of his tongue wasn’t particularly long or wide, it was  _ agile _ .

He gripped Prowl’s thighs tighter, lapped hungry crude strokes to draw out fresh lubricant and then zeroed in on one of the fine, lower internal sensors and dragged his glossa out to press on his anterior node. Again and again, until Prowl’s array felt like it was sparking with charge, and he was gasping. He was sure his thighs were probably clenching too tightly, too much of his weight was coming down on Jazz’ helm, but it was only instinct to get closer to the source of his pleasure. Jazz was utterly focused on his task.

He started to hum again, low in his register, slowly working up through the frequency range until Prowl’s thighs spasmed again and he was forced to lean forward to brace himself on the bumper he had been fondling. It was the best kind of torture - Jazz could hold a note indefinitely and now he was zeroed back in oon Prowl’s node, with only short flicks away to keep the sensitivity high. 

Prowl ground down one last time and overloaded with an overwhelming shudder. Jazz’ hum abruptly clipped off as high charge dissipated through his upper body, but he kept up slow clumsy strokes of his tongue over Prowl’s mesh until the mech grunted with oversensitivity and levered himself up.

Prowl didn’t topple - too risky with doorwings - but there was a certain amount of gracelessness to his mode of unentangling them. He slumped on the berth beside Jazz and watched the saboteur shake the stiffness from his neck and heave himself upright. 

After a few moments just looking at Prowl, that pretty mouth curled into a smirk. “Either,” he said, vocaliser pinging slightly with the voltage that had blasted by it, “I’m the luckiest mech in the galaxy with two Prowl’s in my berth, or you’ve broken my visor.”

The visor mountings were slightly skewed, and there was a thin hairline crack splitting down the left side. Jazz clicked one of the catches and the whole thing fell unto two neat parts in his lap. 

"Well, damn,” said Jazz cheerfully. “Ratchet’s gonna kill me.” Hde ran his glossa over his swollen lower lip, in an all too provocative fashion. His face was wide open, handsome and smug, traces of lubricant still wet on his chin and mouth. HIs optics, bright and pale, were focused tightly on Prowl’s frame. “Totally worth it though.”

Prowl had to agree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ironically, with this as the next post that was due I scratched one of my corneas, spent a week half blind and hence the delay. 
> 
> I do not recommend. It was not worth it.


	22. Hindsight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl makes a whole series of mistakes. Jazz profits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sequel to 'Foresight'

Prowl had not been expecting anything - it bever paid to expect things with Jazz because he was so naturally chaotic. Maybe that had been his first mistake. 

His second mistake had been to let it be known he had a joor with no meetings or calls planned. 

His third mistake had been his stubborn refusal to accept that to Jazz a locked door was merely a delay as opposed to a blockade. 

The lock had chirruped and the door slid open and Prowl didn't even have to look up to know it was Jazz slipping in like a thief. 

"Not interruptin' anythin' am I?" 

"Aside.from my work? No." Prowl looked up and startled slightly, Jazz wasn't on the opposite side of the desk like he had supposed, but standing nearly beside him. He was wearing one of his mysteriously ambiguous smiles and his spare visor, which was more angular and more heavily pixelated than his main. It made it more difficult to see where his optics were looking. 

Waving a hand like Prowl didn't have important work as Autobot SIC, Jazz' smile widened. "Good, good. Fancy a quickie?" 

"Jazz, really..." sighs Prowl. "Are you insatiable?"

They had fragged like petrobunnies the cycle before - breaking Jazz' visor in the process and only taking a break before the start of the shift to deliver the good news to Ratchet. Prowl had a keen libido as the next mech, but Jazz really was a field of his own sometimes. 

"Well, ya see I was trying out this old visor and came across a sneaky little partition I musta made in the local drive." He shrugged. "Nothing much except a few pictures you sent me when we were courting." 

Prowl remembers those pictures. they hadn't been too raunchy - it wasn't sensible to send anything privately that you didn't want seen privately, especially in wartime - just a few images moatly of the jut of his chest in profile, one of the length of his back, doorwings wide... 

"You've seen far more of me since," he said, amused. "Was that enough to get your engine running?" 

Engine revving to show his keenness, Jazz nodded. "Aw, yeah, mech! And then I remembered what I did with ya as a.. repayment..." 

Prowl did too, in excruciating detail. He had interfaced before of course, but never had he been pushed down and had his spike sucked with such enthusiasm and talent. His gyroscopes had spun on their own accord for breems afterwards.

"Yes," he said slowly. "I remember that as well."

"Good," said Jazz, baring his dentae in a long slow smile that was simultaneously terrifying and very attractive. "Because when I did it, you said you would have appreciated a bit of a warning before hand." 

He leant well into Prowl's space. "So here's ya warnin'. I'm gonna suck your spike dry, Prowler. Got any questions?" 

He hadn't quite responded in time. That had been mistake number four. He had a joor free and in the end needed every last moment of it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prowl updates the locks on his door almost weekly, because if he doesn't Jazz gets bored at the lack of challenge and starts to sulk.


	23. Scrub

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Jazz, cleanliness is closer to sinning than godliness.

Having a private wash rack was the height of luxury. Jazz was a little uncomfortable with using his too often - it felt a little bourgeois for his very much proletariat tastes - but occasionally a mech just needed to stand under some hot solvent and lets his cables relax without getting caught in a suds fight or the temperature abruptly going cold. 

And since it was private, he could open his plating and let it all hang out as it were. Really get the protoform clean. 

Warm solvent was slick and strange on the plating, a curious stimulation over his open array. It channeled down over his half-pressurised spike, just firm enough to stand free of his protoform, and slithered down the gaps at his groins to trail over his valve mesh. He followed it with his servo, running his palm over the length of his spike and trailing his fingertips down to slip between his plush lips, where he was slick and soft with his own lubricants. 

It all felt good, the heat over his shoulder and neck struts, the clean warmth down his torso and limbs, the soft touches over his array. Against his palm his spike started to perk up, sensitive to the faint friction. 

He liked his spike - it was a nice handful and had a particularly handsome blue stripe down the sides - but it wasn't his go to option on date night as it were. It was still nice to get it out once in awhile though, feel it firm up under his grip until it jutted proudly up. As he focused on the input from his forward array the throbbing heat between his thighs dimmed to background noise, sensation from his spike coming to the fore. 

He essayed a few simple strokes, getting everything as firm as it could be. His digits seemed rough against the delicate platelets, rougher than visual inspection would lead him to think, but it felt good, like scratching an itch he hadn't known he'd ever had. There were a good few tricks he knew for wringing pleasure out of another mech's spike - mostly Prowl's - but it was difficult to apply his grip as easily, or twist his wrist at the right angle. 

He stroked up, squeezing firmly and hissing in pleasure. Droplets of silver eased from the tip of his spike, washed away quickly by the roil of solvent. But he liked the image, so he took a step closer to the wall, so his back and shoulders blocked the flow of the rain and repeated the move. Droplets spilled over his knuckles, one or two each time he stroked. 

The contrast was nice on his black digits, but he thought it would look even nicer over white. Prowl's servos would look good on him like this, one stroking his spike, the other settled on his hip to hold him still. Prowl would lean down over his back, thrumming hot words of arousal against his audial like pouring sin directly into his processor, and touch him so agonisingly slowly that Jazz would quake and beg for mercy. 

Overload struck like a hammer, the burning ache of his transfluid tanks opening and spilling full bore a hum under the jerking shock of charge. Silvery, mineral rich fluid surged out, splashing the wall in front of him and then running thickly over his knuckles.

With his valve, he knew he liked to pet and stroke and keep going until everything tingled but the naivety of his spike sensors meant he couldn't decide if it was pleasant or not. He tried, regardless, shuddering with each fresh droplet he eked out, until he could bear no more and let go. 

His knuckles tasted of solvent and the tang of mineral salts when he licked his digits. With a huff of vents, he stepped back into the spray proper and let the current rinse off his servos fully. 

“You’re using all the hot solvent,” said someone behind him. Jazz jerked and span around, hands not flying to one of his hidden blades only because of the familiarity of the voice. 

Prowl was leaning in the doorway, lips curled into an amused smile. His plating glistened with droplets, meaning he had been standing there, watching, for a long time.

“Pervert!” laughed Jazz, “Watching me self-service, huh?”

“You looked good,” said Prowl, stepping forward into the flow of the solvent. “I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“You’re always welcome to  _ interrupt _ me,” said Jazz, heaping on the innuendo. 

Prowl leant down into Jazz’s space, mouth so close to his own he could feel the vibrations of the air pushed aside as his vocaliser fired. One of his spotless white hands reached out, around Jazz’ waist. “You’re still wasting the solvent.”

He turned the tap off, kissed Jazz once and turned and left. Jazz threw his hands up in exasperation and followed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scrub-a-dub-dub.


	24. Completion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The job's not done untilit's done properly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Related to 'Virtue/Punishment/Reward' and 'Opportunity'

When Prowl could summon the wherewithal again, he moved slowly. Beneath him Jazz shivered and shuddered as the weight over his frame lifted, but he didn't move until Prowl pulled him up, splaying his pedes outwards to rock onto his knees.

"Hello, pretty," he rumbled, nuzzling a damp cheek. "What a beautiful thing you are."

Jazz stayed quiet and shivered, building up a frequency which made his armour clatter. For all Prowl rather enjoyed a little punishment play in their berth time, afterwards was not the time for cruelty. They had a ritual after this sort of play - well Prowl had a ritual, as Jazz was rarely in the right state of mind for independent thought for at least a joor - to encourage them both back to their normal selves. 

"Shush now," said Prowl not unkindly. He petted an audial horn and leant his forehelm against Jazz', waiting for the flicker of spirit to return to his pet. Once they were done, Jazz tended to start to bounce back quickly.

Jazz continued to shiver. Well, Prowl supposed they had gone hard this time around. He had broken out his whip and stripped varnish and paint from Jazz' back and thighs, until he had been a sobbing mess for Prowl to do what he wished with. What he wished was a thorough defiling of the mech's mouth and valve, which he had performed with glee as Jazz had gone as bidden. 

Now with much more careful hands, he turned Jazz and laid him as flat on his belly as he could go. Their frames didn't allow for the sort of full body contact that Jazz needed facing each other, but front to back seemed good enough; Prowl eased his weight down over top of him, hearing the soft squeeze of air from vents as armour compressed. The shivering started to slow to a dull chiming. 

"Well done," he murmured, starting the next phase of the ritual a little early. He would normally take Jazz to the wash racks and soak him down, clean every seam and crevice and tread with care, and croon sweet praise to him at the same time. But they could be here for a while as Jazz regained a grip, and maybe a few soft words would perk him up quicker. "My sweet pet. Such a good mech." 

Jazz shivered profoundly and made a pleased mewling noise. 

"Lovely," said Prowl, relaxing a little more. The frame beneath his was overheated and the warmth soaked into his body like a balm. As much as he enjoyed taking Jazz down, it was hard work. "Once you come back up to me, I'll wash you down and paint you perfectly again, hmm?"

Jazz nodded into the berth sheets. His servos were starting to show some life again, twining his digits into the sheets. Prowl reached out and captured one, squeezed it and was pleased to get a squeeze back. 

They lay there, in a heap of gently cooling metal, Prowl rumbling compliments and Jazz slowly calming and coming back to himself. No longer did Prowl feel quite as much like the hungry predator guarding his prey, no more did Jazz feel like the thing he needed to grasp and own and control. His processor drifted to planning the task of sanding down stripped metal and repainting, maybe a slightly different configuration of black and white than previous so Jazz would always have a little bit of Prowl with him...

When there was an eventual "You're heavy," Prowl knew it was coming time to move. He did so slowly, carefully, not to tip anything back over again and knew he was right to do so by Jazz' own slow vague movements. When he was finally sat up, his visor was dim and swimming with delicate interference patterns.

"Ooh," said Jazz, voice airy. "Don't that feel strange." 

Prowl snorted with amusement. "Come on, pet, time for a bath." 

"'m your pet," said Jazz, voice pleased. "Aren't I?" 

"Until you're a little more put together," said Prowl, applying a helping hand to pull Jazz onto his pedes. "And then you can just be my Jazz again."


	25. Slumber

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's no such thing as nighttime in space.

As a species, Cybertronians were never too fussed about a day/night cycle. They had lived on a planet with no sun to orbit, and for the most part either had their own light sources or could see in the dark. Life was divided by shifts, work patterns, arbitrary numbers to allow some means of ever actually turning up somewhere at the same time as someone else.

Life on a spaceship was not much different then. Prowl had divided what could be considered a Cybertronian day, a full cycle of a chronometer, into six distinct shifts. You worked, you recharged, you relaxed, although he had little care for what you did in the shifts you weren't scheduled to work. 

Six shifts gave a lot of overlap between rotas, when scheduling was staggered. This had stalled a lot of complaints about never being able to see friends or loved ones, and the mood of the general populace had softened considerably towards Prowl afterwards. 

He couldn't even take full credit - although he was the poor sap that worked double shifts determining the most advantageous arrangement of crew members, the initial idea had been Jazz', suggested as a morale booster. Prowl had found the suggestion irritating, but as with many of Jazz' ideas it had aggravatingly worked. The mech had even shrugged off taking the commendation for the jump in morale and let Prowl have the benefits. 

It had been vorns since - trapped hunting Decepticons through space, the crew had rather gotten used to each others foibles - and still Prowl was benefiting, although sometimes it was hard to remember whenever an elbow leaning on his door wing woke him from slumber. 

"Fraggit, sorry mech," mumbled Jazz, half frozen in the process of flopping onto the bed. Prowl peered sleepily at his silhouette, lit vaguely by the dim glow of their optics and flicked his doorwing up a bit further to be out of the way.

"You are back early," he said, mentally taking Jazz' designation from the 'away' to 'potentially rosterable' queue on his mental list. "I was given to understand you and Bumblebee were going to shadow that neutral port for some time yet." 

Jazz was making himself comfortable in the sheets, mostly by rolling as many around himself as possible. He tucked his helm against Prowl's flank, just shy of his door wing and vented. "Things got a little risky. Decided to duck out early, give 'em the old Velocitronian goodbye, ya know."

"Have you been to medbay?" 

"Dropped Bee off all personal-like." 

"So you haven't been to medbay then."

One of Jazz' vents was making a sound like a whistle stuck in a steam pipe. "Prowler, I'm runnin' on fumes here. Can't a mech have a nap?" 

Prowl still had a cycle's worth of defrags ro run, and his batteries were feeling pretty deplete . Arguing Jazz, or worse wrestling him, into attending the medbay was not going to help. He sighed and reached out. 

"It was First Aid workin' the shop floor anyway. I like the kid, but he always acts like I'm gonna spring up and bite him some day if he don't watch out." Under the questing hand, the whistling vent popped fully open. Now it only hissed like an angry glitchcobra but relatively it was an improvement. "Aw, mech, that's better."

Prowl petted the flank available to him for a moment, enjoying the warmth of another frame and the knowledge of his mate's presence, systems slowly ebbing down to recharge. His chemoreceptors could detect the tang of smoke and burnt oil, the lingering acrid stink of blasterfire. There was probably smoke and coolant and all sorts over his sheets now, but Jazz' weight against his side made it seem less important somehow. He reset Jazz to 'medleave' without a word.

"All right," he said, his own tired systems making themselves felt. "But first thing after my recharge shift, I'm taking you to the medbay. No arguments." 

"No arguments," murmured Jazz. He reached out and settled his arm across Prowl's torso, visor blacking out as he sank into recharge. 

Prowl sighed and remotely accessed his rota, to clear out his own next six shifts. There were benefits to be in charge of timetabling sometimes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nap time boys.


	26. Sharing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz gets to lie back and let the Autobots take care of him for once. Prowl supervises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tangentially related to 'Virtue/Punishment/Reward'

Jazz was a hot mess and loving every second of it. His audials were tuned solely to the timbre of Prowl's vocaliser, everything else a dull hum in the background, and his visor set to opaque so the world was a dull haze of block colours. 

He could just make out the blaze of white that must be Prowl, stalking in circles around him. Aside from him there were at least seven other mechs; two of which were helping themselves to his frame. The spike in his mouth was attached of a big red frame, the one behind him a gleaming yellow. Distantly Jazz could hear them talk and laugh, and a distant clap of servos.

"Childish behaviour," grumbled Prowl, his voice the only audible thing amid the wash of static. Jazz whined, afraid that he'd been chastised, although what for he couldn't guess. "Ah, not you, my pet. You're doing so well." 

Prowl petted one of his audial horns and Jazz perked up. He put a little more effort into sucking the red spike in his mouth, now directed by the servo grasping his audial - it didn't taste or feel the same way Prowl's did, but it was still nice - and flexing his calipers around the thick length pumping his valve. The rhythm stalled for a moment and then there was a fresh slick of hot transfluid rushing into his valve. The mech in his mouth followed swiftly, spilling his load copiously over Jazz' glossa until it overflowed down his chin, unable to pull away with the restraining servo on his helm.

"Messy," chided Prowl, but his tone was affectionate. "Ready for more?" 

The two mechs clambered off him slowly, with soft pats to his shoulders and hips as thanks. They must have been barely clear before another frame was astride Jazz' hips and his valve opened sloppily along a fat spike. 

And so it went. Jazz was pulled this way and that, flexed and contorted into a range of positions that no other mech would be able to manage. A bevy of spikes were pressed into him- his mouth, his valve, his port, even rubbed along the sensitive rubber of his heels and shoulders - and an equal number of valves rubbed and slicked on his plating, squeezed around his own spike. He was covered in transfluid and lubricant, valve and port aching and the joints in his jaw begging for respite. 

All through it, he was a blind, deaf participant. There were a few he thought he could identify by memory - Ironhide's spike was too big to not remember clearly, and Ratchet could do that devilish thing with his smallest digit - and there are others it was easy to work out - only Wheeljack flashed like that - but otherwise he didn't care to identify them. That wasn't his purpose here.

Throughout, Prowl stalked around him, a fleeting touch here and there, a reassuring word whenever he was flexed into a strange position, or a comforting murmur at a new stretch in his ports. He didn't touch Jazz much beyond that, left him alone and bereft and dependant on these unfamiliar frames for comfort. 

Finally, he was laid back on the makeshift berth, pairs of servos grabbing his ankles and spreading his legs, other pulling his own servos high above his head. He was vulnerable like this, and tired and just starting to tip down into the wrong type of discomfort, but he went as bidden. 

A big mech, a blaze of blue and red knelt between his thighs and shunted in a spike that made his gyroscopes spin. That huge blocky frame leant down over his, making his own substructure groan at the weight. But it was  _ nice _ , almost comforting to be so bracketed. The field above him, over him, was warm and soothing, and Jazz whimpered as he was covered and mounted and owned at a spark deep level that mimicked what only Prowl could do to him. A big servo half covered his helm, brought him into contact with another forehead, and distantly he could see the bright blue glow of optics through his visor. 

He forgot the ache in his hips and the mineral taste on his glossa. All there was was the presence of this mech, this huge all-encompassing field, swallowing him whole and turning him inside out and baring his spark for this mech to see. Charge surged up and across his frame like a tidal wave, and he sank into it, free and happy to be washed away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figure shagging Optimus is sacreligious but also totally worth it?


	27. Covet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl has reasons to hate this new mech.

It was irrational to hate a mech who was on the same side and fully associated with the Autobot cause, but Prowl did not like this mech. 

Sidearm was a passing visitor, sent with information from some splinter group on a remote colony. He had been an Enforcer previously as well, and seemed to think it meant he and Prowl had some sort of affinity. Prowl had not minded in the beginning - it had been faintly irritating to be talked to in such a familiar way, but it was a change from fear or dislike. Sidearm was handsome as well, in an arrogant, over confident way, and had a certain amount of swagger. 

And then Jazz had come back. 

He had slunk in directly to the medbay, and his first public showing was shiny and polished, with only a couple matte patches showing where his latest repairs were. Prowl pinged him a welcome and received a fond grin in return from across the room, that special true smile that Jazz saved for him. 

Unfortunately Sidearm had been standing beside him at the time and also got a full blast. 

"Wow," he said, "Who's that?"

Prowl glanced sideways to see if the mech was making fun of him for having Jazz as a partner, but the expression on Sidearm's handsome face was entirely different. Poleaxed might have been the closest descriptor. 

"Jazz," he said, "Third In Command, Head of SpecOps." 

"Oh." For a mech without lipplates, Sidearm had an expressive face. Prowl watched out of the corner of his optics as the stunned look spread into something lecherous. "Bet he knows a few tricks then." 

"I beg your pardon?" 

"You know," said Sidearm, shrugging. His optics hadn't left Jazz as he circuited the rec room. "Spies. They gotta do all sorts in the field. Bet he's a good lay." 

Banter and chat with mecha who had been his subordinates and friends for vorns was one thing, but this sort of chat from a near stranger, and about his partner no less, was more than Prowl could deal with. 

"Speaking in that manner about a superior officer, let alone any mech, is impolite and offensive," he said tartly. "I have brigged mecha for less." 

Sidearm tore his gaze from Jazz' aft. "Eh? It was just a bit of fun, Prowl. He's a hot piece. I was just pointing it out. No harm, yeah?" 

"Let it remain that way."

"I thought you were fun, mech," said Sidearm, looking sulky. "We were mates." 

"No," said Prowl, snapping his datapad shut and standing from their table. "We were not. Goodbye."

* * *

"Sounds like a common creep," said Jazz, later that night. "There's always one, ya know. Some mechs have no manners." 

Prowl huffed. They were sitting together on the battered sofa, Jazz with his legs cast over Prowl's lap companionably. He was slurping a bubbling cube of energon the faint green colour of medgrade. 

"His attitude was deplorable." 

Jazz smiled. "Are you slagged off because he was rude or are you slagged off because it was me he was talkin' about?"

"Both," said Prowl, "Because although you are 'a hot piece' as Sidearm so nicely put it, only I get to say that." 

“Possessive,” said Jazz still smiling as he sipped another mouthful of energon.

Prowl made another huffing noise. “I shall suggest that we curtail his visit as much as possible. I won’t have behaviour like this be tolerated.”

“Uh huh,” said Jazz mildly.

“My motives are to discourage disrespect in the ranks.” Prowl wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince. 

Certainly Jazz didn’t look persuaded. He took another drink, rolling the fuel around in his mouth for a moment, like he was considering something deeply. 

“That the same motive for the big ol’ kiss ya laid on me right there in the rec room then?” Jazz grinned. “‘Cause if so, I got some disrespect to inspire in that case. Maybe keep Sidearm around for extra encouragement.”

“He’s leaving!” snapped Prowl. “I won’t have him wandering around  _ ogling _ you!”

"Ooh, jealousy." Setting his cube down, Jazz leant in and pressed a kiss to Prowl's cheek. "It's kinda sexy on you, mech." The consolation was well received, and Prowl felt his ire settle. "Hey, you know what would be even sexier on you?" asked Jazz, heaving himself forward with that strength and flexibility Prowl as admired. "Me!" 

Prowl stared up at his lapful in perplexed silence for a moment, as Jazz visibly struggled not to burst into cackles.

"I've changed my mind," he said, deadpan. "I don't want you anymore. Sidearm can have you, you awful mech." 

Jazz roared with laughter and set about proving Prowl very wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before I proofread this, the last phrase read 'probing' instead of 'proving'. It didn't really change the tone of the sentence by very much.


	28. Loopholes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Praxus had some strict traditions, but a crafty mech could easily find their way around them.

"Back in Praxus," said Prowl, not moving his servo an inch from where it had fallen, over the wide curve of an aft. "It used to be a given that before conjunxing spike in valve interfacing was… discouraged."

Jazz stretched, all lazy elegance, and met his gaze in the mirror set up across the berth room. "Yeah? Musta put a crimp on some date nights." 

Prowl shrugged, the gesture more effusive for the rise and fall of his doorwings. "For some no doubt. Others… We found a way around the discouragement." 

"We?" Jazz chuckled. "Ooh, Prowler, I like a rule breaker. What did you do instead then? Suck spikes, lick valves?" 

"Sometimes," said Prowl, stroking Jazz' aft again. It was such a nice aft, wide and chunky. There was a lot to like about Jazz, but he did have a lovely behind. "Other times we fragged aftports instead."

Jazz' helm cocked curiously, his face benign and watchful. "And ya liked it?"

Prowl had had non-Praxian lovers since. He greatly enjoyed the flex of a valve around his spike, how the mesh gripped and rolled, but his formative clinches had been focused on afts, the clutch and squeeze. 

"Yes," he said. "I did enjoy it. I became very good at helping my partners enjoy it as well." 

Jazz hummed softly. "I done a lot of things, but never that ya know." 

This was faintly surprising. Jazz was renowned for having done most things at least once, including some which were definitely not recommended. Ratchet was still peeved about the time he had hardline cabled with 3 Neutrals at once and just about blown all of his fuses. 

The surprise must have shown in his body language. Jazz laughed and slumped down on his belly as best he could. "Couple of glossae goin' a bit astray, a thumb digit tryin' what they could. Ain't gone any more in depth though." 

"If you wish to experiment," said Prowl, trying not to let his keenness show too much. His reflection in the mirror showed his doorwings hiked up excitedly. "I would happily guide you." 

With a certain amount of aplomb, Jazz transformed his panels back, displaying the tight iris of his aftport just above the plump mesh of his valve. He wriggled his hips, the little flirt, and grinned. "Gonna show me a good time then, Prowler?"

Within the joor, Jazz was putty in Prowl's servos. He had laughed at the size of the bottle of lubricant the mech had produced from a subspace pocket, but had swiftly fallen to moans and hums as Prowl had put it to good use. 

He knew how to coax open a mech for the first time, gentle pressure and soft fingertips turning into the slow slide inside. Even better they remained sprawled on the berth so that the mirror showed every flicker and twitch of Jazz' expression as finally he tipped into a faint quivering overload, two of Prowl's fingers pumping his aft and his other thumb stroking his anterior node.

Satisfied, Prowl made to withdraw, but Jazz was quick even when post-coital. He rolled to the side and snatched Prowl's wrist, tugging him back down so he had to reach out and catch himself not to land on his mate.

"Where d'ya think you're goin'?"

"To get a cloth for cleanup," said Prowl. 

Jazz spluttered in disbelief. "No ya ain't! Come on mech, ya can't tempt me like that and then leave me high and dry!" 

Of course, Prowl would be unwise to treat Jazz with the same parameters many of the naive mechs that had come to him previously had followed. Many of them had enjoyed the finger play just as much, but balked at the thought of the plunge and needed a little time and distance to come around the idea. Jazz had no such compunctions - Prowl had shown him the hint of a good thing, so of course he wanted the full package. 

He said as much, and Jazz laughed as he rolled back to centre. 

"Ya know me too well." 

Quickly, Prowl straddled broad thighs and shuffled in a bit closer. He had kept his own panels buttoned down tightly but the view was tempting enough to make his spike pop the plating. "Do you want to then?" 

"Mmm, you tempted me enough," said Jazz. "You are good at this." 

The relief of opening his panels and letting his spike pressurise was unimaginable, nearly as good as the sight of his spike nudging to the softest of protometal. Prowl's engine growled at the sight. 

"I told you, I was very good at helping my partners enjoy themselves." He drizzled lubricant over his spike, wincing at the coolness. "I in turn enjoyed making their first aft-play enjoyable." 

"Ah, so you liked picking out the scared little virgins keen for a new experience then? Do a bit of debasing of innocence?" 

Prowl huffed. "Innocence can be appealing."

"Uh-huh. Want me to act all coy and virginal for ya?" Jazz grinned and reset his visor to a softer, paler blue, unlike his normal vibrant colours. His lips pulled into a moue of discontent, voice jumping up from his self satisfied rumble. "Oh! Prowler! Ya can't pull your spike in there! It ain't gonna fit!" 

Prowl snorted, although there was something about the pastel visor and pretty pout that definitely ticked a mental box. His spike didn't lose a bit of pressure. "I do not think you ever acted coy and virginal even when you  _ were _ ."

Jazz grinned again. "Nah, I was plain old enthusiastic." The grin abruptly became a little stunned as Prowl leant his weight forward, spike tip threatening to breach his aft port. "Although I might go back to one thing - ya really think that's gonna fit?" 

Pausing, Prowl stroked the sudden line of tension that had come over Jazz' spinal struts. "It will. You liked it well enough with my fingers inside you." 

"Yeah, well…" Jazz peered back over his shoulder. "But your spikes big, Prowler." 

"Not much bigger than my digits." He demonstrated, slipping the pad of one finger deep again. The port squeezed tightly and then relaxed again, clutching hungrily at the touch as he withdrew it. "You can always say no. I might appreciate inexperience but I would never force you." 

Jazz' pout became real briefly. "I didn't say I didn't wanna! Just.. Go slow, Prowler." 

"I'll show you how good it can be," said Prowl and slowly pushed forward again. The rim tensed against his pressure, bit he just rocked back and then tried again. Slowly, bit by bit, the tension left and more of the blunt tip of his spike slipped inside. Beneath him Jazz had turned back to centre, buried his face in a pillow and was making soft little groans. "All right?" 

"Slag me," said Jazz, jerking his helm back. "You'll kill me goin' so slow!"

Smirking, Prowl pushed forward a little harder, the flare of his spike sinking inside. Jazz made a strangled noise and his frame locked into tension for long moment; to coach him through it, Prowl rubbed fresh lubricant over the join of their bodies, slipped a hand down further and stroked a throbbing anterior node. 

Whimpering, Jazz took more and more, body flitting between relaxed and excruciatingly tense. Prowl knew above all, patience was the key, along with most of the bottle of lubricant. Their pelvises were slick with it, the sheets probably beyond saving by the time his pelvic armour tapped Jazz' aft. 

"Holy frag," gasped Jazz. He still hadn't flicked his visor colour back to normal, so the light cast over his face made his expression look desperate and broken. Prowl rolled his hips a bit deeper just to keep that expression on his face. "Holy  _ frag _ ."

"All right?" His own voice was a rumble, hoarse and static ridden with how good it felt. But he had to stay in control, for Jazz' sake at least, and ignore the hot squeeze of port swallowing him down. 

Jazz made another strangled noise. "Ya better not stop," he wheezed. "Prowler! Don't ya dare stop!"

With that encouragement, it was difficult to not lose control. Prowl had liked the shaky keenness of innocence, but Jazz' brand of wild enthusiasm hit the spot nicely as well. He essayed a slow rocking thrust, dripping more lubricant between them before the push in, and Jazz sobbed. Prowl fragged him slowly, keeping the pace even and revving his engine at each delicate sigh and groan he earned. 

"Ya can frag a bit harder," whined Jazz. His face in the mirror was all flushed and open, exactly how Prowl liked it. "I ain't made of glass." 

Instead Prowl ground in and held. "You might regret that," he said, smiling to see his own face in a similar state of dishabille. Jazz just had a wild effect on him, every time.

"Do it!" Jazz moaned. His port clenched and squeezed greedily around Prowl's spike, his digits knotted in the sheets and vents flung wide open to cool his roaring systems. 

Asked so nicely, Prowl had to obey. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1500 words of just aft porn. 
> 
> I like robot butts ok? It's a PROBLEM.


	29. Smooch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even if it's not fashionable, Jazz can still do it with style.

Mouths were not de rigeur at the moment. As with many things, they tended to swing in and out of fashion, and what was fashionable was a shiny face mask and an intake port. Mecha liked that sort of thing; it was sexy as all get out.

Jazz had been built a long time ago. Mouths, lips, glossae had been all the rage then, and he had ended up with a handsome set; full lips, straight gleaming dentae and a nice nimble tongue. Time and time again he had been tempted to get a reframe, or at least a temporary mask, but he was glad he hadn’t ever succumbed.

A mouth could do a great many things. It was more efficient than a port – a mech with teeth could chew through solid fuel rations and supplements far more easily than the grinding wheels of an intake. It was an excellent tool for communication for a mech who preferred to keep his optics hidden – whatever expression he needed showed nicely on his lips. He could use it as an echo chamber, to reverb the harmonics of his vocaliser through and amplify his sound, create his signature style. If you were desperate, you could hold things in it as long as you could block input from the chemoreceptors laced over the meshes.

He could use it to kiss Prowl, and that was a fragging amazing use.

There wasn't one of their kisses that Jazz wasn't helm-over-pedes for. The quick, the long, the cheekily stolen in passing as Prowl tutted his disapproval afterwards.

Jazz liked to use his kisses as little communiques, a different meaning for each. Pressed to Prowl's cheek was fond and affectionate, a reminder to maybe get up out of his desk chair now and then and interact with something other than his datapad. He would press his lips to the palm of Prowl's servos after too long spent working, a silent chastisement. 

There were the flirty kisses, pressed to the edges of Prowl's doorwings or right between where the tension rested heavily on his shoulders. Prowl would always lean into that touch. He would turn into the nipping, biting kisses Jazz would lick up his throat as well, leaving the faint marks of his teeth behind. Given the chance, Jazz would kiss every inch of Prowl's body and enjoy every moment of it.

There were open mouthed gasps, lips pressed to Prowl’s as they clung together, panting the evidence of his desperation as he was fragged senseless into the mech’s mouth, so he would taste just how much Jazz wanted him. There was afterwards, lying in a warm heap as they cooled down and Prowl would deign to receive soft little smooches, even trade them back and forth if he was feeling particularly fond. 

As with most things, Prowl had been less effusive in his kisses than Jazz was, but he had also picked up the habit. He might land a quick peck of one of Jazz' audial horns as he left for a shift, a quick goodbye. He might give him a slow deep kiss in a quiet corner before Jazz had to ship out for a mission, and an even deeper sweeter one when he came back. 

Jazz' plush lower lip would get bitten when Prowl was feeling particularly raunchy, or he might slip his own glossa in to tangle with Jazz' nimble one. He liked to vent hot vapour across Jazz' chrome to create blooms of lust, mimic his open mouthed kisses over Jazz' valve as his lover whined and writhed under his ministrations. 

And he had one more kiss, that was maybe Jazz' favourite: a soft press of lips to lips. It was chaste and prim, outwardly dull, but Jazz alone knew exactly what it meant, what Prowl would whisper to him as he did it when they were alone and close, and how it meant exactly the same thing even when Prowl didn't speak the words. 

Jazz liked having a mouth, but he liked that Prowl had one even more. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 💋💋


	30. Redhanded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite being tactical geniuses, Prowl and Jazz aren't as subtle as they could be about somethings.

Each console was lit and waiting around the conference table. Red Alert was already in his seat and sparking nervously - which wasn’t particularly noteworthy. What was more noteworthy was Jazz’ presence, playing a game on his datapad with one hand and twirling a ruststick between the digits of the other. 

Prowl gave him a suspicious look as he sat down in the next chair along. 

“This is the third command meeting in as many days,” grumbled Ironhide, “Have we not discussed everythin’ to death yet? I got slag to do.”

Sparks fizzed from Red Alert’s antenna. “This is a potentially important data breach! Who knows how the Decepticons might use this information!”

Helms turned anxiously, processors humming at what important information had been leaked. Beside Prowl, Jazz stayed mysteriously still, apparently focussing harder on his game and chewing frantically through the ruststick. 

Optimus broke the worried silence. “You have our attention, Red Alert.”

“Jazz found the breach,” said Red Alert, optics narrowing sharply as he looked across the desk. Jazz merely tapped harder on his datapad. “Pulled it from Soundwave’s information on the last infiltration. I only came across it today.” He tapped his own console and a link appeared on each of the other. “I shan’t describe it,” he added primly. 

Curiosity surging, Prowl selected the link and promptly found out why Jazz was very pointedly not making optic contact with anyone. 

The silence was astounding.

“I’m not surprised Jazz is involved,” said Wheeljack, flicking through the photos with an air of frank curiosity, like they were an experiment not behaving the way he had expected. “But  _ you _ , Prowl?”

“I’m real persuasive,” said Jazz tersely.

As Prowl recalled Jazz  _ had _ been particularly persuasive that day; he had teased Prowl into a state and then launched himself into a series of high speed stunts that Prowl’s enforcer instincts had commanded him to chase. They had ended up in some remote meadow somewhere, muddy and gravel spattered and one thing had led to another… 

“Why are you always involved in these things, Jazz?” asked Optimus, with a look of supreme forbearance on his stately face. He had already closed his console down, which was a small mercy. Ratchet had also closed his and his expression was reaching new heights of unimpressed. 

“If you’re gonna select for mechs who don’t mind mayhem and chaos, you’re gonna have to accept some of us are excitement junkies as well.” Jazz crossed his arms. “I still ain’t seein’ the issue. Even the humans know me and Prowl are banging bolts, even if they haven’t figured out exactly how we do it. The ‘cons have known for millennia. So what Soundwave has evidence… We weren’t even bein’ that raunchy.”

“If this ain’t raunchy, I want to know what is,” said Ironhide, still flicking from picture to picture with an unpleasant smirk on his face. “Gotta say you’re more flexible than you look, Prowl.”

“Next time Jazz is due a processor repair, I’ll install an inhibitor chip in his interface centre,” offered Ratchet, leaning back in his seat. He was probably being facetious, but Prowl’s own processor was feeling a little too taxed to tell the difference. Red Alert was already bleating about the risks on his side of the table, Prime still looked like he was reconsidering a lot of his life options. Prowl could only empathise.

“No bot’s installin’ anythin’ in any of my centres,” snapped Jazz, and Prowl felt duty-bound to intervene before the whole thing devolved into a total mess.

“I apologise,” he said shortly, “We became… caught up… in the moment. At the least we should have ensured we were not watched.”

When there was no more forthcoming, the Prime sighed - air whistling through his smokestacks - and nodded. “And you have no concerns about this knowledge becoming public?”

Prowl shrugged. “As Jazz says, the Decepticons knew we were mates a long time ago. Humanity can do what it wants with this. I am more embarrassed than concerned, and embarrassment never harmed anyone.” He bowed his helm slightly. 

“Fine,” declared the Prime, “I think we can finish this meeting then. Delete the pictures from our intranet, please Red Alert, and we’ll have no more of this.” He fixed Prowl and Jazz with a gimlet optic. “No more interfacing outside. Don’t make me make you write it into the regulations, Prowl,  _ please _ .”

There was some grumbling - from Red Alert, who was displeased no one was being punished, and Ironhide, who was still enjoying the photoset - but the meeting was swiftly drawn to a close and Jazz and Prowl were left alone.

With a jaded optic, Prowl flicked to the next photo in the set. The pictures moved from them rolling, carefree and laughing through the organic muck of the meadow after Prowl had finished the chase with a takedown, to kissing to fondling and then… 

He could see why Ironhide had thought it was raunchy. 

“Uh, Prowler?” Jazz had finished looking sulky, and now just looked faintly worried. It was almost touching that the united disapproval of Autobot HIgh Command - including the sacred weight of the Matrix contained within the Prime - had little effect on his attitude, but the idea of Prowl’s disapproval made him cringe. “Are ya mad?”

“Humiliated is closer to the mark.” He sighed and rubbed his chevron, digit continuing to press the next key to complete the photoset. At the very end was a single picture of them trading a slow kiss, the sweetness of he could almost remember on his glossa even now. “But it was as much my fault as yours, so I cannot blame you. We should be more careful in the future however."

Jazz, very wisely, nodded and stayed quiet for a moment. He couldn’t resist though, and both of them knew it. “Ya look real hot in some of them pics, Prowler.”

“You awful mech,” said Prowl, and the chase started again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prowl ends up having to write that regulation anyway, but it was worth it. 
> 
> (The chapters say 30 out of 30, but I suspect I'll get another idea out of the blue that just won't play ball and I'll slide it in here. Or if there is anything anyone is keen to see Jazz and Prowl-wise? Give me your thoughts!)


End file.
